The One that Got Away
by Arynn Octavia
Summary: A tough case forces Detective Lassiter to re-evaluate his thoughts on Psychic Shawn Spencer. Slash.
1. Prologue

Everything comes so easy for "psycic" Shawn Spencer; tough cases-solved, intense situations-no problem. He takes everything in stride. Nothing ever fazes him. He bounces into every situation, totally chipper and care free.

At least that was the perception that detective Carlton Lassiter had of the phoney psycic when he first met the infuriating man. Spencer had no worries because he would suffer no consequences. He didn't have to make sure that suspects were brought to justice. He didn't have to worry about following procedure. He didn't have to bother with warrants and Miranda warnings. He didn't have to know the difference between probable cause and reasonable suspicion. If he made a mistake, he didn't have to answer to a review board or internal affairs. He was free to come in and mess up a case, leaving the REAL detectives to mop up after him. The worse that could happen to him was being charged with interfering with a police investigation, which normally comes with the slap on the wrist of a fine or minor jail time, but for someone like Spencer, who has a cop for a father and has admittedly had a hand in several successful police investigations, he would get away scot-free.

But then, this perception of the "psychic" that the detective had built came crashing down around him in an instant. In that moment in time, all pretenses surrounding the phoney psychic shattered, and for a brief moment Carlton Lassiter could see into Shawn Spencer's soul. In that instant, the detective would never look at the "psychic" the same way again, not after The One That Got Away…


	2. Chapter 1

"I'm on to you. You've got a source somewhere, and I'm going to find it."

Detective Carlton Lassiter had kept his word. He grudgingly worked with Shawn Spencer whenever the chief told him he had to (or whenever the "psychic" somehow wormed his way into a case, which was more often what happened), but he also started a file. Actually, the file had already been started. Full of dozens of tips the "psychic" had called in before their first official meeting. Detective Lassiter had xeroxed the file, and began to add to it. He worked on it on his own time, copying case files that Shawn had a hand in, adding newspaper articles, all the dirt he could find on Shawn and even his partner at his phoney psychic detective agency "Psych", Burton Guster.

One whole file drawer in Carlton's home office was now taken up with the Spencer file. It wasn't so bad at first, he started it in the nearly empty drawer that he kept tax documents in, but soon the number of cases the "psychic" had had a hand in grew. All solved, admittedly, thanks to the "psychic" in one form or another. The drawer became overloaded, and the tax documents were instead relocated to the drawer that held his now official divorce papers, and monthly bills.

There were a few suspicious things right off the bat. For one, Shawn Spencer's cases were 100% solved. No detective ever in the history of the Santa Barbara Police Department had had such a track record. Carlton didn't believe in psychics, so there had to be some other way Spencer was getting his information, which brought up the second suspicious thing. None of the cases were even remotely alike. If they had all been drug offenses, or all repeat offenders, his solve rate could have been explained away by one or two well-placed informants. The problem was that these cases involved drugs, robbery, murder, kidnapping, first time offenders, repeat offenders, and even some cold cases from years back. There was no way one informant, or even a well-developed network of informants, could have provided the information needed to solve this variety of cases.

The info on some of the cases, the poisonings or a few of the cases involving drugs, could have come from Burton Guster himself, who also happened to work at a pharmaceutical company on the side, but the number of cases that would have benefitted from Guster's expertise were only a small percentage of the cases that the psychic had miraculously, unbelievably, irritatingly, solved.

As the Spencer file grew, Carlton became more and more exasperated. How was the fake psychic getting all of his information? The frustration mounted when it became apparent that the information couldn't be coming from anywhere. Carlton had to admit that Spencer was becoming a useful source, though this little fact annoyed the detective as much as relieved him. But no matter how impressive, there had to be some explanation. Psychics didn't exist, that was not even an option. Perhaps Shawn was like some sort of idiot savant; like that four year old kid who can hear a song played on the piano once, and then recreate it exactly, including any mistakes made. Grudgingly, the detective had to admit to himself that, though the man had this annoying habit of crawling under your skin and irritating the hell out of you like a chigger, he would have made a damn good cop. Too bad he had opted for the life of a scoundrel instead.

So the detective spent his days working overtime, and his free hours were spent at home pouring over the growing file that contained everything he could find on Shawn Spencer, trying to find the one piece of the puzzle that would make everything-his job, his world-make sense again.

-o-0-o-

It had been uncharacteristically cold in Santa Barbara all winter. Detective Lassiter had actually found himself going to the local Target to buy himself a pair of flannel pyjamas. It was in said pyjamas (blue plaid ones-the only ones he could find that didn't sport cartoon characters or the logo of some band he had never heard of) that he woke one morning in mid January. In a split second he knew something was wrong. He always (at least at that time of year) woke up before the sun, but as he shifted into the waking world, a ray of sunlight streaming through his half-closed blinds lit his face, warming it in a pleasant, but alarming way. It was then that he noticed that he was not in his bed, but lying on his couch. He looked down, and lying atop his plaid-covered chest was a newspaper article he had been looking at last night.

It had been hastily ripped out of the local paper, tearing through the bottommost corner of the article. The last paragraph was only half present. The headline read PSYCHIC SPENCER ASSISTS POLICE IN HIGH PROFILE CASE. The case had involved an intern in the Mayor's office who had disappeared. It had turned out that the intern had been having an affair with the mayor (who had just announced he would be running for governor), and had been paid a large sum of money to disappear, which she gladly took, and stupidly lost in Vegas within two weeks, at which point she reappeared, looking for more money. The case had been pretty straightforward, and Detective Lassiter had thought the newspaper's version of the story placed too much emphasis on "Psychic Spencer's" involvement. Of course, the reporter, a young and fresh journalism graduate from UC Santa Barbara, had been covering all of Spencer's cases for a few months now, and if her incessant giggling at each of the phoney psychic's bad jokes was anything to go by, the girl had a crush.

The detective hadn't found anything in the article to help him on his search for the answer to the Shawn Spencer question, but something about the article caught his eye, and he had felt compelled to keep it. Under the headline was a photograph of the psychic and the detective. The picture struck the detective as an odd choice to include in a newspaper. Spencer had his back up against a squad car, facing the detective, who was leaning toward him. The looks on both men's faces were ambiguous to say the least. To a casual observer, when taken in accordance with the headline of the article, it probably looked like they were having an in-depth conversation about the case. Spencer was peering up through his lashes at the detective, who had obviously just finished making an emphatic point, if the intense look on his face was any indication. Of course, if the headline had read GAY SCANDAL IN SBPD, their looks would have probably been read quite differently. Only someone who truly knew the two could have accurately interpreted the picture. Spencer had made some wise-ass remark about his finding the "victim" before the cops, and the detective had thrown him up against the car, and had, just before the flash had gone off, threatened him. The look on Spencer's face was his trademark obstinate expression, which usually ended with an eye roll that clearly said "Have these lectures EVER worked on me in the past?" The detective had found the article the day before, and had been pondering it, and the picture that came with it, when he got home late the night before. He must have just fallen asleep when...

He looked up at the clock on his DVD player, which unhelpfully flashed 12:00 in angry red digits.

"Shit!"

He bolted off the couch and found his watch on the table by the door.

"Shit!"

It was nearly 8:30. His shift started a half hour ago. He grabbed his keys and was halfway down his driveway when he looked down and realised he was still wearing his pyjamas.

"SHIT!"

He raced back into his house and changed into his suit from the day before, strapping his shoulder holster and badge into place, and slipping his shoes on before racing back out to his car. Smart (though technically against-the-rules) use of his lights and siren got him through the morning traffic and to the SBPD station in less than 15 minutes. He only crashed into one person, and hastily yelled an apology over his shoulder, on his way up to the chief's office. What he saw inside gave him the almost unbearable urge to turn around and run in the opposite direction, and only his morbid sense of curiosity, and apparent gluttony for punishment, caused him to instead push through the glass doors and into the office.

Burton Guster stood, looking half exasperated and half horrified, between Detective Juliet O'Hara, Lassiter's partner, and Karen Vick, Chief of Police. All three were peering down into one of the seats in front of the chief's desk. In that seat, Shawn Spencer sat curled up in the foetal position, sucking his thumb. Though his eyes were closed, his sixth sense for rubbing detective Lassiter the wrong way spurred him into action the second the detective entered the room.

"Daddy?" Spencer had sat up and now looked at the detective with wide eyes. He got down off the chair and walked over on his knees to the detective. "Daddy, did you come to rescue me?" He grabbed Lassiter's hand, which was immediately snatched out of his grasp, so he instead threaded his arms around one of Lassiter's legs, and hid his face against his hip, looking shyly up at the other three adults in the room.

"Spencer, let go of me, now!" The detective ground out through clenched teeth, which only made the "psychic" wrap his arms around the detective's thigh tighter.

"What the hell is going on here?" Lassiter looked up at the chief and his partner, simultaneously trying to ignore the man who was inexplicably acting like a child and now squeezing the detective's thigh in a way that was fast approaching inappropriate, and sucking his thumb again.

"Simon Wittaker, owner and CEO of Wittaker Shipping, just called in a kidnapping," the chief offered.

"His six year old daughter wasn't in her bed this morning, and they found a Ransom note," Guster added.

"Shawn is channelling the little girl." O'Hara ended the explanation.

"Daddy, can you take me to see the big boats again?"

Spencer nuzzled into the detective's thigh, his warm breath making its way through the thin layer of Carlton's pants, and warming the skin within. The detective wrenched his leg out of Spencer's tight grasp and jumped away from the man so fast, he nearly tripped over the other chair on his way back. As he glared angrily down at the infuriating "psychic" he could swear he saw a triumphant grin pass the men's face before he collapsed forward onto the floor with a sigh. Guster and O'Hara helped him up, and he appeared dazed for a moment until he shook his head, presumably to clear it. Then, "seeing" the detective for the "first time" he greeted him with a grin. "Oh, hello, Lassy! You're finally here. We were worried about you."

Ignoring the "psychic", Carlton addressed the chief instead. "I'm sorry. There was a power outage in my house again, I missed my alarm."

"It's fine, Carlton. We'll take it out of your PTO. It's going to be a late night, anyway. You're on this case." She inclined her head toward the file in O'Hara's hand. "You too," she nodded to Spencer, and shooed everyone out of her office.

"It'll be a PLEASURE to work with you again, Carly," Spencer leaned close to the detective's ear and whispered, his breath tickling the back of Carlton's neck, before he bounced away, Guster on his tail. The detective rolled his eyes, and with no one else left to shoot his glare at, he turned it toward his partner, who just shrugged and passed him the file, as if to placate him.

It wasn't her fault, the way Spencer acted. He felt guilty for taking it out on her, but instead of apologising, he made up for it the only way he could think to. He pulled the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to her. Her arm shot out and caught them, a surprised look on her face. "You drive while I catch up on this." He lifted up the file and opened it with a flourish. He tried not to notice the spike of elation on her face. He never let her drive.

The file didn't really tell him any more than their two-lined synopsis in the chief's office. 911 call, first to the scene's prelim questioning of parents, the ransom note. The initial call had only been made an hour ago, that was good news.

The detective took some satisfaction in the fact that he and his partner had gotten there before the psychic and his side kick. He had arrived and asked the parents a few questions that the first on scene hadn't asked, and was just being shown the ransom note when he saw Spencer and Guster enter the house. He read the note with one eye, watching their movement around the living room, then the kitchen, with the other.

The note seemed to be focused on Simon Wittaker, and claimed to be written by disgruntled former employees. They requested ten million dollars, and said a call would be made at noon to give details about how the exchange will happen. A few things about the note struck the detective as fishy. For one, the pronouns changed throughout the note, sometimes saying things like "I have your daughter in a safe place," and "My grievances have not been addressed," and sometimes "We are watching over her, but any wrong move on your part..." and "Our voice will be heard." The writing was uneven as well, sometimes full of colourful metaphors and strong messages, almost manifesto-like, and sometimes going beyond prose, into more street-slang. If the handwriting weren't the same throughout, he could swear it was the work of more than one person. Perhaps part of it was dictated. The note was two pages long.

He had read through it once, and was starting to read it again when it was snatched out of his hand.

"The note!" Spencer danced around the room, one hand flying in front of him as if it were a leash dragging him to a specific destination. "Here, they used this pen...and.." he flew around some more, the hand in front of him leading him by the detective. He made sure to crash bodily into him on his way past. The force of the blow forced the detective to turn his whole body, following Spencer's movement around the room. "...this paper."

"Wait, they used pen and paper from the house?" The detective forgot about the blow, and hurried over to Spencer's side. Sure enough, the rip pattern across the tops of the pages matched the rips on the top of the legal pad. "Why would they bother to write this two page convoluted monstrosity at the scene? Why wouldn't they have written it out before, or even better, typed it?"

"Hand written ransom notes do scream 'spur of the moment'," Spencer agreed.

"And kidnapping is not a "spur of the moment" crime," the detective added.

He looked up at Spencer, who smiled back at him.

"Bring in the IT team to tap into the phones, we have two and a half hours to prepare for their call."


	3. Chapter 2

The detectives and the IT team sat with the parents around the dining room table, waiting for the call, but never one to sit still, Shawn Spencer continued to roam the house, taking in all the details he could. There were many pictures of the family around. They looked happy. The girl was unbelievably cute. Blonde hair in tight little ringlets, enormous blue eyes, cute little space between her two front teeth.

"Hey, look at her." Shawn picked up a photo and handed it over to Gus, who had been following him around the whole time.

"Yeah."

"Isn't she adorable?"

"Yes, adorable. Where is she?"

They walked into her bedroom. The sheets and bedspread had been taken along with the girl.

"Well, she was definitely asleep when they took her."

"How do you know?"

"They took the bed coverings, possibly to cover her up and keep her under control, but the stuffed lamb she sleeps with every night is still in the bed, if she'd have been awake, she would have brought it. She was very attached."

"How can you tell?"

"Look at this house. For one thing, you could fit ten of my dad's houses on the first floor alone, but there is no dust anywhere. There aren't even cobwebs in the corners of the 20 foot high ceilings in the living room. Everything looks brand new. But from the pictures, it's obvious that they've live here at least since they were pregnant with their oldest son, who is 10 now. They're obviously rich, and obviously have a very good maid service. But look at this thing."

He held up a yellow stuffed lamb that was looking seriously grey around the edges. It had had holes repaired in several places, and through the thinning yellow fabric of the lamb, it could be seen that new stuffing had been added many times, some of it more or less white than others.

"There are pictures of her sitting next to this lamb as an infant, and believe me, it's seen better days. The parents are probably itching to throw this ratty thing away, and only little Michelle's protest has sparred its life. Over half of the pictures out there of her also have this lamb in them."

He tucked the lamb under his arms and hugged it subconsciously to his chest as he continued to look around the room, then the rest of the house. When they made it back down to the dining room, the mother sobbed as they walked in. She got up and took the lamb from the psychic, hugging it close to herself, as if that act would bring her daughter safely back home. Shawn was willing to bet that she wouldn't try to convince Michelle to throw it away anymore, no matter how much more ratty the thing got.

"Don't worry, we'll find her."

The mother nodded, but made no sound. She sat back down next to her husband, never loosening her grip on the lamb. Shawn made his way back to the kitchen.

"The broken window, in here," he was saying as Gus entered the room behind him. "This is where the letter was written. One of them took the kitchen staircase up to the second floor, went down the hall, didn't take any wrong turns, walked right by the boy's room, and took her. The other one stayed in here, pacing. They left out the kitchen door. Did they know the layout of the house? Did they know the boy was away at Space Camp?"

"It's possible they knew the layout, if they are former employees," a voice came from behind them. They turned to find Simon Wittaker standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. "I host a company picnic here every summer, and a Holiday party every winter."

"Do you have any ideas who they could be? Are there any former employees who may have a problem with the company, or with you?" Gus asked.

"That's the thing," Wittaker said, confusion brushing his features, "I don't have all that many former employees, and most of them have left the company on very good terms."

It was true, a job at Wittaker Shipping was known for being a highly sought after gig: great benefits, company works hard to keep its employees happy. They designed and constructed ships, cruise ships, cargo ships, and even designed a ghost clipper ship for a recent blockbuster pirate movie, which since filming of the movie has taken up residence as part of the show at Disney Land. It was hard to imagine disgruntled former employees when the CEO of the company invites his workers out to his beautiful house twice a year to party and enjoy the tennis and basketball courts, the pool, and the giant home theatre and game room downstairs.

Shawn had just opened his mouth to add something when the phone rang. All three men raced into the dining room, where the wife sat with the cordless phone in her hand. The IT officer had just nodded at her, so she pushed the talk button and brought it to her ear before the second ring had a chance to sound.

"Hello."

"..."

The officers that were wearing headphones' shoulders all dropped at the same time, as if it had been choreographed.

"Now is not a good time."

"..."

As the person on the other side continued to talk, the wife's eyes filled with tears.

"No, I can't talk right now," she choked out.

"..."

Detective Lassiter shot out of his chair and grabbed the phone from Mrs. Wittaker. "DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER AGAIN!" he shouted loudly into the phone, making all the other officers wearing headphone flinch, before roughly hitting the end button. "Damned telemarketers."

If the tension in the room hadn't been tight enough to rip an army tank apart, it would have been funny. As it was, Mr. Wittaker slumped down into the seat next to his wife, and everyone else sat waiting for the call from the kidnappers.

Less than a minute later, it came. The same process began again, and Shawn threw on an extra pair of headphones just as the wife answered.

"Hello"

"Mee-says Wittaker?"

"Yes?"

"We have your dot-er."

The tears started up again as the caller continued in the fakest nondescript accent Shawn had ever heard. It was like a mix between French, Russian, and cyborg.

"Woei request ten mill-eon doll-arse, in small unmarked billzs. Meet us at zee fiif-teenf mile marker on Gibralter Road in Los Padres National Forrest. You have three hours. Come alone, do no bring zee coptz."

Part way through the kidnapper's instructions, Shawn started flapping his hands, making the universal sign for 'I need a pencil.'

_Anacapa and Gutierrez_ he wrote, slipping the paper back across the table toward the detective. He had heard the faint chiming of a street vendor who usually occupied that corner and sold hot dogs, sweet rolls, and the best Jerk Chicken in town.

The detective looked up at him, as if gauging whether to respond or not, but then handed the note to Juliet, who took it, and a radio, out into the living room.

"I want to make sure Michelle is okay."

"Zee girl iz fine, be smart, or it won't be that waye for long."

They had hung up.

"Don't hang up yet, we almost got the trace," the IT officer quickly spouted.

She laid the phone on the table, without hitting the button.

"Okay, got it. It a payphone on the corner of..."

"Anacapa and Gutierrez," Shawn and Carlton finished the sentence for him.

"Umm, yes."

"I radioed dispatch; there was a squad car not far from there. They'll print the phones if they don't find anything." Juliet sat back down next to detective Lassiter as she finished speaking.

"We've got info on the make and model of the vehicle she was taken in, a Dodge Ram Van, made before 2003. Through traffic cameras we tracked it to the highway, then lost it," an officer came in and put a sheet of paper in front of detective Lassiter.

"Damn, they didn't give us much time," the pressure was evident in detective Lassiter's voice.

"It's police policy to recommend against paying off the ransom. Our chances are best at finding her within the next day. You pay them, and you lose what power you do have in this situation," the IT officer offered.

"I don't care about power struggles, I just want my daughter," Mr. Wittaker looked on the verge of tears himself.

Detective Lassiter sighed; he didn't know how to put this gently. "Once they get the money, keeping your daughter around is only a liability for them, and letting her go is releasing one of the best witnesses we have back to us."

Mr. Wittaker's shoulders slumped.

"We have three hours, hopefully it won't come to that," another officer offered.

"Okay, let's get the dogs. Do you have something with her scent on it?" the detective inquired.

The wife quickly jumped up and handed the detective the stuffed lamb. "She never lets me wash this thing."

"It's perfect." The detective offered a sincere smile, and took the lamb out to the front.

Shawn followed him out, and watched him hand the lamb off to the dog handler, who put it in a bag and bent down to wave it in front of his three bloodhounds. As soon as he unhooked them, they ran around to the side yard and started sniffing around the sandbox and swingset.

"Okay, Spencer. What do you have for me?"

"There were two of them, they broke into the kitchen, wrote the note, one went up to get Michelle, the other stayed down in the kitchen, perhaps finishing up on the note. They grabbed her. Took her to the van that was parked behind the garage, then went out to the highway."

"We know all that! Who are they? Where are they?" The detective looked desperate for information.

This had been one of the cleanest crime scenes Shawn had ever seen. There wasn't much for him to go on. Of course, clean crime scenes usually mean organized criminals, but the note had been written at the scene, which didn't fit.

"They knew the place. Not just the best spot to get in, and the most direct route to the Michelle's room, but they even knew right where to get the pen and paper. None of the kitchen drawers had been rifled through. They probably even knew the older brother is away this week. I don't think it's a former employee, at least not of Wittaker Shipping."

"What, a maid, groundskeeper, or nanny?"

"I don't know."

"What about the parents?"

Shawn shook his head, but had to concede, "I don't know."

"Well, that's not like you!" the detective barked out before he could stop himself. He took a calming breath and spoke again. "I'm going to go ask about house employees. Why don't you check out where that call came from; see if you "sense" anything."

"Were the "finger quotes" really necessary?" Shawn shouted at his retreating back.

He signalled to Gus, and they made their way to the corner of Anacapa and Gutierrez, where the street vendor greeted Shawn like an old friend. "Shawn Spencer! Hey, mon! The usual?"

His cart consisted of an oil barrel cut in half lengthwise, the halves hinged together on one side, turning it into a makeshift barbeque. Underneath there was a wood box built on, which held the sweet rolls close enough to the bottom of the barrel to keep warm, but not to burn. He kept the money in the box too, and Shawn loved to pay slightly over the amount of his bill, because his change always smelled like jerk spice. The hot dogs also picked up the flavour, though they weren't rubbed in it like the chicken, so using the sweet rolls as a bun was a nice contrast to the spice. The whole thing stood on wheeled legs made out of metal and wood. On the side of the barrel, the vendor had installed a rusted out old bicycle bell, which gave a very distinctive chime each time he rang it, which was every time he made a sale. It was the sound that Shawn had heard in the background of the ransom call.

"Hay Dequaine! Yes, and a hot dog for Gus here. Say, did you see anything weird here a while ago, round noon?"

"Oh, you mean the cops dusting that phone on the corner?"

"Well, yes. And before that? Do you remember who used the phone just before?"

"I don't pay attention to people, I pay attention to cops."

"Do you remember anything from before the cops were here?"

"Nope." He handed Shawn a chicken leg and thigh still adjoined, and a sweet roll, and handed Gus a hotdog in an already split open sweet roll. Shawn paid.

"Thanks, man. This stuff is the best in town."

"You know it, and you tell your friends!"

Shawn began nibbling on his chicken as they walked over to scope out the phone. There was nothing here that could help him either. He could tell by looking that the phone held hundreds of fingerprints. The forensic guys would be up to their ears in matches by the end of the day. There was nothing left behind in the booth, or nearby, that looked out of place. The one crumpled up piece of paper to the side was an ad for a phone sex hotline, nothing written on it.

Gus's phone rang and he stepped away to answer it. He was back in less than a minute. "Thanks for the hot dog, Shawn, but I have to go. Can I drop you off anywhere on the way?"

"Yeah, take me to my place."

He got home and finished his chicken as he tried to decide what to do. Usually by now he would have some idea where to look. But he was at a loss. He hopped on his motorcycle and made his way back to the payphone, asking a few more people if they had seen anything. None did. Then, he made his way back to the station to see if they had come up with anything.

-o-0-o-

The detectives had asked about house staff, and aside from the gardener, the Wittakers didn't employ regular workers. Mrs. Wittaker didn't work, so there was only occasional call for child care, when the Wittakers went out those times were handled well by Simon's mother, who lived in the area and was happy to take care of her grandkids whenever she got the chance. Oddly enough, they didn't have a regular maid, but used a local service. The detectives had called on the gardener, to ask about his opinion of the Wittakers' marriage and home life, and his whereabouts the night before. He didn't know much, except that he had been home with his wife and kids, who could confirm it. He had let the detectives into his house right away, appeared calm but concerned, not the kidnapper. The maid service had a staff of ten regulars, who were all coming in for questioning. The grandmother had also come in, and by her accounts the Wittakers' marriage was the typical happy marriage. She loved her daughter-in-law, and loved her grandkids.

Detective Lassiter was at his desk, on the phone, when Shawn arrived.

"Okay, so no one- Alright."

He hung up the phone, and rested his head in his hands like he had a very bad headache. Before he could stop to think, Shawn had moved behind the man and begun rubbing his neck and shoulders. The detective relaxed back into the message for a second before he came to.

"Spencer, what are you doing?"

How can someone speak so loudly while keeping their teeth locked together?

"You're tension is like a wall blocking the vision of my third eye, you need to relax."

The detective tried to swat the man's hands away, but Shawn moved them away just long enough that instead, the detective slapped his own neck. As soon as the slap had finished, the psychic returned to working the knot-ridden muscles again. Resigned, the detective asked, "So, what did you find?"

Nothing, Shawn had found nothing. No one-not people on the street, nor shop keepers-had seen a thing. That area of town didn't have cameras on their traffic lights, so they wouldn't be able to see for themselves what had happened or who had made that call. There was nothing for Shawn to base even a very general "vision" on. They only had an hour and a half until the time of drop off. Going for a "mystical" excuse, Shawn offered in a dramatic voice, "Something clouds my inner eye, blocking the truth from me."

The detective had drawn in a large breath, as if preparing for a long-winded tirade, when the phone rang. "Hello?"

"They do?" He shot out of his seat, which shot back rolling painfully over Shawn's toes.

"Thanks, we'll be there in a few, don't call them off." He hung up and turned to Shawn. "The dogs are following a scent trail up into the roads toward Los Padres. The girl has never been up that way, and the handler says the dogs are treating it like a fresh scent."

He had already begun running to the doors, and Shawn simply followed him, leaping onto and kicking to life his motorcycle so he could follow the detective's car up the mountain. With lights flashing they made their way quickly to the dogs, who were eagerly pulling their handler down the side of Gibraltar. A procession of cars followed along the road behind. As they pulled past the cars and cut in just behind the dogs, Shawn counted two cruisers, one SUV marked K9 Unit, and a forensics van. They pulled back and made room for both the detective's unmarked, and Shawn's bike. Finally, after a couple miles of this crazy procession that began with bloodhounds and ended in a forensic van, the dogs darted away from the road and into the woods. The vehicles all pulled over to the side of the road, moving as if the procession were a single entity, but only the detective and the officer from the K9 unit exited their vehicles and followed the dogs and their handler. Shawn followed too. He immediately noticed footprints leading into the woods, more than the dogs and their handler's. The detective and the K9 officer were wisely only stepping in the bloodhound handler's tracks. None of the tracks were Michelle's, she didn't weigh enough to make an impression in the compacted earth near that road.

Shawn made his way slowly, trying to take in anything that he could, until wild baying started deeper in the woods, and he ran toward the cops. Moving as fast as he could through the thick forest growth, Shawn finally found himself near a small clearing that couldn't even fit a compact car, thicker bushes crowding the larger tree trunks on three sides. The detective, the cop, and the scent dog handler all stood shoulder to shoulder blocking Shawn's way into the clearing. The bloodhounds had stopped pulling their handler forward and now just sat, baying shrilly. Finally the handler pulled the dogs to the side to give them the stop signal and reward them for a job well done, and Shawn saw what was lying in the clearing. There was a white blanket thrown over a small pile of leaves. The blanket had come from Michelle's bed. Why did the dogs stop? Where did the scent lead after this? Why was everyone staring down at the blanket?

Shawn fell back against the nearest tree trunk, a sharp aching pain in his chest. He couldn't breathe, he could only stare down at the blanket. 'It's just leaves. It's just leaves. It's just leaves...' his silent mantra continued as the K9 officer radioed back to the station and the cars still parked back at the road. 'It's just leaves. It's just leaves. It's just leaves...' It continued as he saw the detective pulling a pair of rubber gloves out of his pocket and pulling them on. 'It's just leaves. It's just leaves. It's just leaves...' He squeezed his eyes shut so hard, it felt like needles were being shoved into his eyes, but the pain didn't even touch the one in his chest. Not breathing, must be a heart attack. 'It's just leaves. It's just leaves. It's just leaves.'


	4. Chapter 3

Detective Lassiter hated this feeling. He pulled his gloves on slowly, as if delaying the moment would somehow make it go away. He made a point attempting to smooth the wrinkles out, the gloves sticking to his now-sweaty hands as he pulled them on. The handler had pulled the dogs away and back to the road. Their place was now being taken by the forensics team. The detective squatted down, relieved that at least O'Hara wasn't there. Knowing she would hate him for thinking that. He pulled one corner of the sheet back to reveal a small foot, tinted slightly with blue. He carefully placed the corner of the blanket back down and moved to the other end, pulling it back instead. A mess of gold and brown lay under the edge of the blanket, yellow hair, still in tight ringlets, mixed with dirt and leaves, the filth not marring the fact that her hair resembled a halo around her white cherubic face. They hadn't shut her eyes, the detective hadn't expected that, and it threw him off. Resisting the urge to reach down and pull those purpling lids down over the cloudy white orbs, he looked instead at her bluish lips. No real use checking a pulse, but he did anyway. He stood and turned, under the pretence of barking orders to the assembled crowd of cops, but really because he couldn't take the sight of her lying there any more without breaking down.

"Okay, we need trace, photographs, everything you've got."

His permission was all they needed. The until-then still crowd bustled into action, and that's when he saw him. Shawn Spencer was leaning back against a tree trunk, staring at the now-uncovered girl. There was no trace of the characteristic grin on his face, he looked down at her with a look that the detective could not interpret, unmoving. He had never seen the psychic look so grave.

"Spencer."

As if his spoken name had been the magic word needed to revive the man frozen in time, he turned his head slowly to look at the detective, his eyes wide and frantic. In one second he dropped down to the ground, scanning it like it held all the answers, and for the psychic, hopefully it did.

-0-o-0-

Detective Lassiter had never seen anything like it, Spencer had searched the forest floor for anything useful. Not moving about with his usual melodramatic theatrics, he was determined and focused. He actually even snapped at a few people who got in his way. The Coroner came and collected the body, and still they searched. Spencer worked harder than anyone out there, but became more distressed as the hours passed and they found nothing useful.

"Okay, we're losing the light. There is nothing else out here," the detective announced as the sun sunk well under the level of the forest canopy. He had suggested calling off the search a few times in the last hour, and Spencer had glared at him each time. His reaction this time was more extreme. He was expecting Spencer to stand upright from the crouch he had been in non-stop since they arrived, he wasn't expecting him to fly at the detective, pushing him back against the nearest tree trunk.

"You can't give up now, we haven't found shit!"

Though the blow against the rough tree trunk was powerful enough to knock the wind from his lungs momentarily, the detective was more paralyzed by this uncharacteristic behaviour from the psychic. Two uniforms nearby grabbed Spencer to pull him off of the detective, and he finally got a chance to take in the psychic's appearance. He was dirtier and more dishevelled than any of them. At some point throughout the day he had scrapped his knee, and blood dripped down the front of his jeans through a tear, all the way to his ankle. He walked with a slight limp from having remained in a crouch nonstop for the last eight hours.

As the psychic struggled to pull himself out of the grasp of the cops, the detective suggested, "Spencer, you're injured, let's get you some first aid."

"You might be willing to quit, but I intend to catch this guy."

"Spencer, no one has found anything in over three hours. We've collected all there is, we've taken photos, we've done a spiral search pattern a mile in all directions, there is nothing else out here, and if there is, the scene will be here in the morning."

"That's bullshit!" The psychic launched at the detective again. "What if it rains tonight? What if they come back?"

"We can leave a uniform..."

"THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" He released the detective's lapels and dropped down on his knees again, searching futilely in the semi-darkness.

"Spencer. Spencer! SHAWN!" He tried to grab the man's shoulder, but the psychic roughly pushed the detective off.

"Spencer, you are bleeding all over the crime scene!"

The psychic finally stumbled upright and backward, then turned, running back toward the road.

"Someone should go after him."

Everyone stared back at the head detective, just as shocked as he was at the psychic's behaviour. Finally, he followed the other man, running to keep up with him. He tried calling after him, but by the time he made it back to his unmarked car, the psychic's motorcycle was only a spec on the horizon. He flew over the hood of his car and tore off so fast, a uniform had to jump out of the way to avoid getting run over.

He wanted to use his lights, he wanted to make the psychic stop and listen to him, but instead he followed at an inconspicuous distance. He followed the psychic all the way to the coast. They sped along the cliffs, going the wrong way. Spencer should have turned west to head home miles ago, maybe he was going to the hospital. The detective's heart started racing when Spencer stopped his bike on a spot on the cliff overlooking the ocean where there was a wider shoulder. With the desolate look in the psychic's eyes from earlier, and the change in his whole demeanour, the detective found himself having to shake off the fear that the psychic would jump. Spencer got off his bike and went over to the guard rail at the top of the cliff. The psychic stood, leaning with his hands perched on the guardrail, and looked out over the water as the sun set in front of him.

The detective stopped his car some twenty yards away, trying to keep as safe distance so as to not startle the psychic, and walked up carefully behind him.

Spencer continued staring out into the sunset, never turning around. At first the detective assumed Spencer didn't know he was there, until...

"Lassie."

The muted greeting, more offered because it was an expected routine than said with any of the usual feeling it held, floated back to where the detective stood, ten feet behind Spencer.

"How did you know it was me?"

"I am psychic."

Lassiter had heard that phrase spoken many times by Spencer, but it had never sounded so flat and meaningless. He would have normally responded with an eye roll at the least, if not by physically roughing the "psychic" up a bit. This time he stood there silently, staring at the psychic's back, framed in the peaches and golds of the sunset.

"Actually," the psychic finally added, turning to face the older man, and leaning back against a guard rail that suddenly seemed so inadequate to the detective. The warm glow of the sunset behind the man threw his form into sharp relief, though the back-lighting made him into a silhouette, and Lassiter couldn't read his facial expression. This fact made the detective uncomfortable, and not just because it would be hard to read his face to predict his behaviour. "-I heard a car pull up, and when you got out I could smell you, your soap. Irish Spring, right?" The psychic chuckled mirthlessly to himself.

As the psychic spoke, Lassiter slowly edged his way closer to the man, uncomfortable with the distance between them. Protocol with jumpers was to give them their space, but Lassiter just couldn't do that with Spencer. "That's right. How could you smell it from so far away?"

"You were down wind."

Lassiter reached the man, and put his hands on his upper arms, spinning them so that they were standing face to face, and that at least half of Spencer's face was illuminated by the rays of the dying sun. He kept his hold on the man, allowing himself time to evaluate the situation. The psychic momentarily looked down at the detective's hands, which still held firmly to Spencer's arms, then looked back up into the detectives eyes.

"What do you want?" Spencer's question held a tone of curiosity. As the only emotion besides desperation that Lassiter had observed from the psychic since they found Michelle's body, he held on to the small flicker of hope it ignited in his gut, and used it to spark his actions, since he had formed no plan up to now.

"You need to talk about it." It sounded more like a command than he had intended it to.

"Go away, Carlton." Carlton, not Lassie-face, not Carly, not Lassie McLassiton the lovely young lass from Lassiville.

"Isn't that MY line?"

They stared at each other, neither able to look away.

Lassiter took in the psychic's face, which glowed in the warm light from the too-fast sinking sun. Even as Lassiter watched, the warm orange colour melted into a cooler purple-y-peach, and Lassiter knew that soon they would be standing in the dark. He took in every detail he could, needing to burn the psychic's face into his memory, but not quite understanding why. There was something in the psychic's eyes, something he had never noticed before. He asked himself why he had never taken the time to look for it, because now that it seemed oddly important for him to comprehend, he found himself struggling to grasp it. Finally his chance was gone, because the sun sunk low enough that the other man's eyes were thrown into the shadows created by his brow. The detective finally settled his gaze on Spencer's lips, unable to take his eyes off them as Shawn slowly opened them, trying to will himself to say something.

Finally he realised that he was starting to lean forward, as if he could no longer fight the gravity of the other man's body. He stood there, hands still holding tightly onto Spencer's arms as if they were the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the cliff. How would this look to anyone driving by? Two men watching the sunset together, holding each other, about to kiss…

Lassiter released the other man and took a step back. "You should go somewhere, but you shouldn't be alone."

"I don't want to be alone right now."

"Follow me to my place?"

The psychic nodded and made his way back over to his motorcycle, throwing a leg over and kicking it into life. The detective found himself spellbound by the other man's fluid movements as he did that, wondering at the swoop in his gut that grew with the growl of the motorcycle. As the psychic spun his bike around and faced it south, waiting to follow him back inside city limits, the detective found himself oddly wishing he didn't have his car. He wanted to jump on the back of the bike, tighten his grip on the psychic, and feel the engine rumbling beneath them as they sped down the coast together. Instead he made it toward his own car through the chill of the quickly fading twilight. He kept glancing in the rear view mirror on the way, assuring himself that the psychic was still behind him, and that the cliff had not suddenly crumbled away and taken the other man with it.

When they finally arrived in the detective's driveway, and he had unlocked the door to let them into his house, he remembered too late about the Spencer file that lay spread out on his coffee table. Of course, hand it to the psychic to lock his attention on the papers immediately upon entering. The picture the detective had been pondering over the night before as he fell asleep lay on top of the others, right in the middle of the table. As the psychic sat down on the couch, it was this article that he lifted to his eyes, studying the photograph at the top.

"I kept this one too."

Of all the things he had expected the psychic to say, that was not one of them. The detective quickly grabbed up all of the papers to bring them into the kitchen.

"I have to make a quick call. Would you like something to drink?"

"A pineapple smoothie would be great."

The detective had already turned to go into the kitchen when he registered the psychic's response, and stopped in his tracks to look back at the other man. What he saw almost made him drop the mess of papers in his arms. There was a slight grin on the other man's face. Though it touched no more than one little corner of the psychic's mouth, and was only the smallest echo of the grins he had seen there before, it was the first hint of something other than pain that had registered on that face for hours.

"Just kidding. I'll take whatever you're having."

He put the file away in the cabinet, and quickly called O'Hara to ensure that the officers he had assigned to report back to her had done so. She had built a rapport with the parents, especially the mother, and she wanted to be the one to tell them.

"Is Shawn okay? I heard he had a breakdown at the scene."

"Yes, he's here with me."

"..."

"Are YOU okay?"

He couldn't stop his small chuckle at that. "Yes, we're both fine. Call me if anything comes up, otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay, bye."

He wet a dish towel with warm water, grabbed some butterfly closures, gauze and medical tape, and pulled two bottles of imported beer out of the refrigerator before making his way back out to the living room. He had been about to go for the hard liquor, but thankfully thought better. He placed both beers on the table and handed the first aid supplies to the psychic, indicating that he should clean up his leg. Before sitting, he pulled off his own jacket and tie. He unstrapped his shoulder holster and tossed it, complete with gun, on the coffee table, first checking to make sure the safety was on, of course. Then he unbuttoned his shirt all the way, pulling it's tails out of his pants, along with the underside of the tee he had on underneath. Finally he kicked his shoes off, sank back into the couch, and threw his legs up on the corner of the coffee table. He didn't want to leave any question in the psychic's mind that the situation was casual, and that he should make himself comfortable.

They sat in companionable silence, sipping their beers. After a minute, the psychic spoke.

"I'm not really psychic."

The detective sputtered on his beer. He had honestly not been expecting that. After catching his breath, he finally replied, "NO ONE is really psychic, Spencer."

He let it go for a few minutes, before he added, "Then how do you do it?"

"The same way you do. I notice things, I dig deeper for information I can't easily spot, I use induction and deduction to put the pieces I find together, add a bit of understanding about human behaviour... Of course, the eidetic memory doesn't hurt."

"Eidetic...You bastard!" He accented his exclamation with a soft kick to the other man's thigh with a socked foot, which made the "psychic" chuckle.

A few more minutes of silence passed.

"You're good at it, you know."

"I can't do it anymore. I don't want to."

"Bullshit, Spencer. That's like da Vinci saying he doesn't want to paint anymore. Strip away the theatrics, all the show, and you are an excellent detective."

"You sound like my father."

"Except I'm not going to push you into becoming a cop. I know you weren't meant for that. Tied to a desk, tied to a suit, tied to a badge, that's not for you. But you love what you do, anyone can see that."

"But I didn't make it, and she died and..." The detective had never seen Shawn cry before, and he would do everything in his power to ensure he would never have to see it again. The single tear that collected in the corner of the other man's eye before falling down his cheek hit the detective harder than if the man had broken down completely.

"Has it occurred to you that she was already dead before we even got the call this morning? There was nothing we could do, but there is something we can do now. We can catch the ones who did this, we can find out why."

"There was nothing out there of use. That cloth we bagged had been out there for weeks, there was a clutch of old insect eggs on the corner opposite the monogram. Unless there's an insect that can lay eggs and hatch in less than a day... The prints show the shoes were brand new, no wear patterns or damage of any kind that can be used to identify them. Unless they are an uncommon brand, that's a dead end. We found absolutely nothing out there that can help us catch them. Even the hairs on the blanket were Michelle's"

"But we do have things to work with, Spencer. They covered the body, they felt remorse."

"Of course she felt remorse. It was an accident. They didn't mean to smother Michelle, they were just trying to control her struggling when she woke up."

"She?"

"Yes, the one who covered her with the blanket was a woman, but the other one wasn't. She didn't want to touch the body, she had him carry it out. He just wanted to dump it and go, he didn't even close her eyes. But she had to cover up what she did."

"Well, we might be able to use her sense of remorse to draw them out. They have never killed before, they are going to be paranoid, and they will be watching the press. We can use that."

"She's never killed before, I'm not so sure about him."

They spent the next two hours on the couch, bouncing ideas and hypothesis off each other. They went through a second round of beers, and at some point the detective had produced a notebook, which now held pages of scribbles and diagrams by both of them. The detective had never had an opportunity to witness the true workings of the psychic's mind before that night, his spot-on "predictions" usually being filtered through the "psychic for show" facade. Now, he could see how truly gifted the psychic was in his reasoning ability, and how creatively he came by his connections. At one point, very late into the night, the detective went back into the kitchen to get a third round of beer for each of them, and found the psychic had fallen asleep by the time he returned. He opened only one of the beers, and leaned back against the door frame of the kitchen, sipping it and watching the psychic sleep. They had both had an emotionally draining day, but it had been ten times worse for the psychic. The detective was surprised he had made it this long before crashing. He finished his beer and brought the unused one back to the 'fridge.

He collected their used bottles, dropped them in the recycling, and made his way back out the living room. The psychic was leaning into the back corner of the couch, his feet still up on the table. His neck lay at an odd angle, and if he stayed like that he would certainly be stiff and painful in the morning. Doing his best not to wake the other man, the detective shifted his feet over on to the couch, and lifted his head to put a pillow under it. The psychic opened his eyes blearily as he was moved, but the detective reassured him, "It's late, Spencer, go to sleep."

The psychic had closed his eyes again before the detective had finished speaking.

He stood there a bit longer, one hand still cradling the psychic's head, before he made his way to the shower and then bed.

The psychic was already gone when he woke up the next morning.


	5. Chapter 4

Days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and nothing ever came from any of the evidence they collected. Shawn had been right; the monogrammed handkerchief they had found near the body had been out there for months. They checked out any names they had in their system that matched the monogram, just in case the killers had chosen to dump the body in that spot because they were familiar with it, and had dropped the handkerchief there on an earlier visit. As the suspects probably had no priors, nothing useful came up. It had been out there too long to get any viable DNA off of it. They had also gone ahead with their plans to use the press to try to ignite feeling of remorse in the killers, Michelle's parents pleading tearfully into the news cameras, but no one came forward.

The detective knew that the more time passed on the case, the less likely they would be able find who did it, and even if they did happen to find them, the less likely they would be able to gain a conviction. Of course, hearts remained hopeful that someone would come forward with any information, anything from an overheard incriminating conversation to a sighting of the van, but minds pessimistically knew that they were stuck.

Other cases came and went, Shawn was called in on some of them, which he quickly helped to solve. Carlton had not mentioned to anyone else that Shawn wasn't psychic. He didn't really see a reason to do so. For one thing, psychics didn't exist, that would be like pointing out to everyone that O'Hara wasn't bigfoot, or that Guster wasn't the Loch Ness Monster. For another thing, it didn't matter HOW Shawn solved the cases, the fact was, he DID solve cases, and now that he had seen the way Shawn really worked, the unique way his mind came to the right conclusion like he had that night in his living room, he found Shawn's performances almost entertaining, though he would never EVER admit to it out loud, even to himself. The man certainly was a natural performer. Unfortunately, Shawn's mystic performance seemed somehow toned down. Still playing the part of the psychic, Shawn went through the motions with less than his usual exuberance. The detective had noticed this, and wistfully looked back on the times the psychic would throw himself about in apoplectic fits, invading the detective's personal space every possible chance he could. Shawn now rarely touched the detective, but when he did, his touches affected the cop more deeply. He felt the psychic, not only at his surface, but deep within himself whenever they touched.

Lassiter was not the only one to see a change. Juliet also sensed a shift in the interaction between the two men. Lassiter would look to Shawn for advice quite often, something he had hardly ever done before. The men would meet eyes more often, even when neither was speaking. The detective's eyes no longer held contempt when they looked at the psychic, and Shawn's no longer held defiant irreverence. It was about three weeks after the day of the kidnapping that the reason behind the shift finally occurred to Juliet. Shawn was summarizing how a crime had gone down and dramatically fell backward into Carlton's chest, and Carlton's arms reflexively flew up to hold the psychic steady. They remained like that, the detective holding the psychic to his chest, for only a brief moment, but somehow the embrace looked comfortable and right. Still, it would have been easy enough to ignore, if not for the way they reacted as they departed. Carlton closed his eyes tight, swallowing hard, and Shawn cleared his throat, ostensibly to continue his story, but in the brief moment it took for Shawn to take a breath before he continued talking, the men locked eyes, and Juliet could swear she saw a spark flash between them.

'Oh. My. God,' she thought to herself as she focused more on the way the men interacted. The way Carlton's eyes followed the psychic's movements, the way Shawn's eyes sought the other man's out, and the way a small grin would appear on his face when they finally found what they were looking for. As the psychic finished talking and the detective made his way back to his desk to make the call that would bring the suspect in, Juliet witnessed Shawn Spencer blatantly checking out Carlton Lassiter. His eyes started on the back of the other man's neck, taking in the shoulders, the crisscross of the detective's gun holster between his shoulder blades, its slick black leather contrasting with the clean crisp white of his shirt, following down the small of his back to his butt, where the shirt was tucked in to black slacks that hung so well, they appeared to have been tailored specifically to fit the detective's backside. Here his gaze lingered, the psychic subconsciously licking his lips. He watched as the detective turned, reached for the receiver, and spoke to the dispatcher who would radio out a BOLO for the suspect.

"Shawn."

"Hmm?" the man blinked and looked away from the Head Detective, smiling. "Yes, Jules?"

"Uhhh, good work."

"Thank you!" he smiled brightly at her, before turning to join the detective near his desk, where they leaned in to each other to speak further. Shocked, Juliet turned to see if anyone else had noticed anything, but Chief Vick had already turned to go back into her office, shutting the door behind herself, and Gus had just received a phone call and stepped off to the side to answer it. When he got back, she asked him, "Is something up with Shawn and Carlton?"

"Something? Like what?"

"Something has changed between them, haven't you noticed it?"

"I haven't noticed anything."

"Well, you should take a closer look." She grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around to face the detective's desk.

The detective was sitting forward in his chair, nodding at the psychic, who sat on the corner of his desk, pointing something out in a case file. Now that he was looking more closely, even Gus could see that there was something there. Shawn had a look on his face like he was in love. Gus had seen that look on his best friend's face once before, not directed at a person, but when Shawn had first set eyes on his motorcycle. He had looked at that motorcycle like he was looking at the detective now, and followed by saying, "It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine." It was a bit disconcerting to see him direct that lovestruck puppydog face at a person, much less a MALE person, but what horrified Gus the most was the recipient of the stare. What was Shawn doing shooting that look at Detective Carlton Lassiter? Was he suicidal?

"Excuse me," Gus bowed quickly to Juliet, then hauled off and dragged Shawn away from the detective's desk. He didn't stop dragging the other man until they had made it out to Gus's car.

"What the hell do you think you are doing, Shawn?"

"Well, I just slam-dunked that case, and I was about to go out and treat myself to some breakfast for dinner. I was going to treat you too, but now you have me second guessing that idea, what with your rudely dragging me out of a police station and throwing me into the car."

"How do you get off staring at Head Detective Carlton Lassiter as if he was a Ball Park frank and you were a man who hasn't eaten in a decade?"

"Okay, first off, do you ever go over these things in your head before saying them out loud? 'Cus you just let drop three or four really juicy baited hooks that I would be a fool not to respond to, so I'll just combine a few of them and say, 'I GET OFF very EASILY eating Lassie's wiener.' Secondly, what are you talking about?"

"See that, right there! I've ignored all of the flirting, all of your molestations of the man under the guise of "Psychic visions," but having feeling for the guy? FEELINGS? You've never looked at ANYONE that way before. I don't think I need to point out that he's a HE, but what about the fact that he's a cop, or, most importantly, he's LASSITER."

Shawn opened his mouth to speak, but uncharacteristically it just hung open, no sound ever coming out.

"Shawn, I've asked you this before, more than once, and I want an honest answer this time. Are you gay?"

"Gus, I've been with women before."

"Yes, I know. Lots of women, who never seem to be able to hold your interest for more than a few hours, who you never feel any connection to, who you complain about to me saying that there is something missing, that something just didn't feel right with Rhonda, with Jill, with Fiona, with Abigail..."

"That doesn't mean I'm gay."

"Of course not. Maybe you just hadn't found the right woman, but you've never really answered my question. I'm your best friend, I probably know you better than anyone else, including yourself, and I know what I saw in there. I just want to let you know, if you are gay, I am behind you 100%..."

Grinning from ear to ear, Shawn opened his mouth to speak, but Gus cut him off, raising a finger and saying, "Strike that, I mean: If you are gay, I SUPPORT you 100%."

Shawn shut his mouth with a snap and continued grinning while Gus persisted, "But I also want you to think about who it is that has you feeling like this. He's a cop, and you know how homophobic they can be, but more importantly, he's Lassiter, the man you have gone out of your way to torment for years. I know we can't control who are heart decides to notice..."

"You're right, we can't."

"But be careful Shawn."

Shawn reached to pull the handle of the door, since they had just pulled in front of his place, when Gus put an arm on his shoulder to stop him. "Most importantly, I'm happy that you finally figured out what you want, but if he doesn't return your feelings... I just don't want you to get hurt. I love you, man."

-o-0-o-

Juliet gingerly approached the head detective's desk after the psychic duo left. He was already engrossed in reading the file that Shawn had been pointing at.

"Shawn just had a vision about this one; he said the guard was actually the one who bagged the jewels the night before."

The detective had called him Shawn, and when he said the word "vision" he didn't accompany it with an eye roll or anything.

"So, Shawn's been on a roll lately, how do you think he's handling the Wittaker case remaining unsolved?" Juliet asked probingly.

"As well as to be expected, I guess. I mean, it still bothers him..."

O'Hara raised her eyebrows, and the detective switched gears. "I would assume. You know how that first unsolved case is, the one that got away. It'll be with him forever."

"Good thing he didn't let it get to him."

The detective cleared his throat. "Well, yeah. We should probably pin a tail on the guard, see if he leads us to his partners. I'll fill out the forms. Stakeout tonight?"

He was off before she could answer him.

As she went about collecting her things to get ready for their stakeout she tried to figure how she would go about this. Should she try to probe deeper and see how the detective feels about the psychic? Is the detective even aware of his feelings for the other man, and if so, has he noticed that those feelings are mutual? What if she was wrong? She was completely confident in her detective skills, but Lassiter? He HAD been married before, and rumour had it he had dated his previous partner. Of all the men at the station, she would have pegged him last as being open to...

"'Evening, Detective O'Hara."

"Evening, Brody."

"Can I get you to sign these for tonight's stake-out?"

"Sure."

"Thanks."

After she had signed the form she watched their newest officer make his way to detective Lassiter. She had thought the new guy was attractive when he first came on board, but found out very quickly that he was gay. He was open about it, and everyone at the station knew. He had had no direct problems since he started, but O'Hara had heard some comments made about him when he wasn't around, and there had been one incident of graffiti in the men's room. She couldn't recall Carlton's exact reaction to hearing these things, though she wished now that she had been looking for it. She did recall that he had NOT joined in on the gay-bashing. He had been one of the few who hadn't.

-o-0-o-

She stared ahead, willing her eyes to remain open. Gone were the days when she could stay awake during a stake-out on adrenaline alone. When she had gone on her first few, the idea that she was on a stake-out was exciting. That any moment a criminal could walk out, get into his car, and lead them to a secret criminal hide-out had her giddy and restless, but she had gotten over that excitement pretty quickly. Stake-outs consist mostly of sitting around waiting for something to happen. You have to have something to pass the time. The problem is the type of things you can do while remaining on the lookout are limited. It's not like you can fill in a crossword puzzle or Sudoku, you have to remain focused lest you miss something. Talking helps, but unfortunately SOME partners prefer silence. She found that large amounts coffee were a necessity, also peppermint. She had started with Altiods, then moved on to Momints when she needed something stronger, finally she had graduated to pure peppermint oil. She found that the 'burning a hole in your tongue' sensation was the most effective way to remain alert.

She looked over at her partner, who was slowly nursing the same cup of coffee he had in his hand when they started this stake-out over an hour ago. O'Hara was already pouring her third cup of coffee from the large thermos Lassiter had brought. It was a bit sweet for her, but it had caffeine.

"Go easy on that. Coffee is a diuretic, you know."

She put her cup of coffee down in the cup holder, only to pick it up again less than half a minute later. How could her partner remain so alert and focused, sitting still as a statue for so long? O'Hara was usually a bit fidgety during a stake-out, but it was much worse tonight. She was finding that when she actually had something she wanted to talk about, it was harder to sit there silently. Perhaps she had a mild form of adult ADD? Not like Carlton, who stared out the windshield in determined concentration, unmoving. How did he do it? What was he thinking about? All O'Hara could think about was how much she wanted to find out what was up between her partner and the psychic. She had almost brought it up a few times, but she knew that it annoyed Carlton when she spoke too much during a stake-out. She bet Shawn would talk to her during a stake-out; he probably wouldn't be able to sit still himself. He was so much different than her partner. Now that she thought about it, the two men complimented each other nicely. Shawn was fun-loving, adventurous, and energetic; Carlton was purposeful, intense, and passionate. She bet the sex between them would be amazing...okay, no. She was not going to think about her partner having sex with the psychic...

"What's up with you tonight? You can't sit still."

What do you think of Shawn? What do you think of gay people? What do you think of that new guy, Brody? She turned to him, building the courage to speak, to broach the subject in some way, but found him looking right at her, and lost all nerve. Still, she had taken the breath and needed to say something. "I was thinking of setting my friend up with Shawn Spencer, do you think he'd be interested?"

'Coward,' she thought to herself as the detective blinked at her.

"I wouldn't know," he snapped, before turning his attention back on the house their suspect was in. She silently berated herself, until she noticed that Lassiter, the usually calm, still Lassiter, was now fidgeting himself. First he picked up the end of his tie and rolled it around his finger a few times, then he picked up his coffee cup, downed the rest of it in one, and began picking at the cardboard cuff around the perimeter of it.

Heartened, she continued, "What type do you think he goes for?"

"I don't know, probably the bubbly blonde barbiedoll model type." He sounded annoyed when he spoke.

"I don't know, I think he'd prefer brown hair."

"Hmm." His gaze remained on the house.

"Yeah, probably someone taller than him, strong, intelligent."

"Your friend is strong, brunette, and over 5'10?"

"Yes, but the problem is, I don't know if my friend would be interested in Shawn. What type do you think goes for him? The bubbly blonde barbiedoll model type?"

"Probably."

This didn't go how she had hoped. She had given up, resigned to sit in silence, when her partner spoke again.

"If you want them to last, you should make sure she can handle his frivolity. She needs to be able to see through it, to work with it, and really get at who he is on the inside. She needs to appreciate his humour, to lighten up. She needs to be able to somehow counterbalance his momentum, to create synergy. Without that he's like a kite free floating on the wind during a hurricane. With no string and no tail to anchor him and help keep him on course, he'll fly away. Most importantly, she has to have the patience to allow herself to become immersed in him, not knowing where it will lead her, just to trust that what she'll find is worth it."

She looked at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging open. 'Wow,' she thought to herself.

"You suppose that's what Gus does for him at Psych?"

He thought for a moment. "Yes. I suppose he does. He needs it in his personal life too."

"And how do you know all this?"

He shifted in his seat, adjusting his tie and clearing his throat. "Well, um. I'm a detective; I notice things."

She opened her mouth, finally ready to hint that the "friend" she was thinking of setting up with the psychic was also her partner, when Lassiter perked up.

"Got him!"

She looked up, and sure enough, their suspect, the security guard, had just locked his front door and was walking to his car.

-o-0-o-

A/N: I got my first flame, and I just wanted to address it here. Feel free to skip over this...

To my anonymous reviewer Shadow Seeker: I love when people feel the need to emphatically defend characteristics of people who don't even exist. As fictional characters, they only exist in people's minds, on the page, or on the screen. So in whatever fictional life they are living, they can possess any characteristic that any writer or artist wishes to give them. Technically, you could attack any piece of fanfiction or fanart for portraying something that never happened in the show, because if it includes any sort of original plot or situation, it is not supported by canon. The alternative would be to write only things that have already been written and appeared on TV, which we like to call plagiarism (not to mention illegal), and most importantly totally lacking creativity and BOR-ING.

Also the show does not clearly stress that they like only women. If you would like to point out to me the episode where they mention that either Shawn or Carlton is not interested in men, I'd love to see it. There are plenty of gay people who have dated and even been married before finally accepting their true sexuality, there are also plenty of people who are attracted to BOTH sexes.

And finally, if it bothers you so much that I've written them as gay, why bother reading it or reviewing, hmmmmmm? I mean, if you like to read a little hot man-on-man action as some twisted part of your own personal self-hating closeted catharsis, that's your business, and I can even point out some nice ones that will get you all aquiver even as you attempt to stress how heterosexual YOU are... Otherwise, I think you'll be happier if you just come out of that closet, and move on with your life.


	6. Chapter 5

She knew you can't really tell the good guys from the bad guys, but this guy had a decidedly shifty look about him. They waited until he was a block away to start their car. They kept the headlights off until they reached a busier road, then they followed two cars behind, until their suspect pulled into the parking lot of a broken-down old warehouse.

"Jackpot," Lassiter said under his breath as they pulled past the turn-off to the warehouse and into the next lot, which happened to be a drycleaner's. "You stay here and make sure nobody comes out, I'm going to look around back."

He slipped out of the car, closing the door behind himself silently, and made his way behind the dry cleaner's.

She kept her eyes out on the dilapidated building behind her, relaxing back into her seat after a minute. With an eye on the rear-view mirror, she tried to devise a way she could broach the subject of the psychic without pissing her partner off. She thought back on the interactions she had witnessed between the two men, looking for tiny clues as to their true feelings. The more she thought about it, the more she came to the conclusion that the two men were perfect for each other.

She was just vowing to herself that she would speak to her partner before the end of the night when she heard a muffled shout and glass breaking. She hadn't even made it completely out of the car when a gunshot cut through the air, leaving a deafening silence in its wake.

-o-o-o-o-

Shawn had settled in to watch Nick at Night muted while listening to his police scanner. He found he looked at old episodes of Lassie differently this way, not unlike watching The Wizard of Oz while listening to Dark Side of the Moon.

Timmy was just getting a talking-to from his father when Juliet's voice crackled to life and filled the Psych office.

_*Dispatch, this is David Union 1! 10-double zero, 10-double zero, officer down!*_

_*David Union 1, what's your 20?*_

_*Sixty-fourth and Mill. Suspects on location... I can't get to him.*_

_*All units proceed to 64__th__ and Mill, 10-24. Suspects armed and dangerous...*_

Shawn was up and out the door so fast; he forgot to close it behind him. He left the scanner where it had fallen off his lap in the scuffle, crackling on the floor under the coffee table next to the remote control. All that really mattered right now was that Carlton was hurt.

He sped to the scene going far beyond the legal or safe limits for motorcycle travel, but he didn't care. Even with his speed, when he got there it was too late. Carlton had been loaded up and taken away in an ambulance. Shawn slowed down only long enough to find out which hospital they were taking him to from Juliet, who was pushing a cuffed suspect into the back of a police cruiser. She wished she could follow him, for his own safety and to be with her partner, but she had to go to the station. Instead she called Gus.

-0-0-0-

Gus finally made it to the hospital three quarters of an hour later, and after quite a bit of asking around, found Shawn in the waiting room of the surgical ward. He was slumped forward in a chair, elbows on his knees and both hands entwined in his hair. The man looked up when Gus approached, but said nothing.

"Juliet had to book one of the guys and fill out paperwork, but she said she'll be here as soon as she can."

"They won't tell me anything, except that he's still in surgery. I don't even know what happened."

"Juliet said he was shot in the chest, she said it was pretty bad."

Shawn didn't say anything. He just sat there, staring down at his feet. Gus joined him, sitting in silence, each man lost in thought. They were still in that position when Juliet joined them a half hour later.

After a quick update, Gus and Juliet made small talk to pass time. Shawn couldn't handle it. He was usually good with intense situations. Even when his mother had been kidnapped by a deranged serial killer he had kept his cool, but only by focusing on his job; the things he had to do to catch the guy (or girl, in that case), and rescue his mom. In this situation, there was nothing for Shawn to focus on, nothing to distract him. The bad guy was already in custody, and he had better hope he never crossed paths with Shawn Spencer.

Unable to stand listening to Gus and Juliet's attempts to act like everything was normal, Shawn got up and made his way over to the vending machines. For sheer need of something to do to distract him from his thoughts, he pulled some change out of his pocket to buy a Whachamacallit. He pressed the buttons and watched the spiral turn, but the candy bar did not fall. Finally, the last straw had come. Imagining Carlton back there, hurt and possibly dying, Shawn lost it. He began violently shaking the machine, slamming it backward against the wall. The nurse behind the information desk picked up the receiver of her phone, shooting frightened glances at Shawn. A doctor approached Shawn from the other side, trying to calm him down. Two orderlies entered the sitting room and began making their way toward Shawn. Gus watched all of this, knowing that if Shawn didn't stop, someone would be reaching for the Haldol soon. He and Juliet jumped up and made their way over to Shawn to head off trouble.

"It's alright, I'm a cop." Juliet showed her badge to the doctor, who nodded at the orderlies. They each stood down, moving away toward the information desk but remaining within shouting distance just in case.

"Shawn, you need to calm down." Gus tried to put a calming hand on Shawn's arm, but was violently shaken off. Shawn continued slamming the machine into the wall. Gus was undeterred. "If you don't want end up in the psych ward on a benzodiazepine drip you should stop manhandling that candy machine."

Gus tried to pull his best friend back away from the machine, but Shawn tore himself out of his grasp, turning violently toward Gus.

"You were right, alright? Everything you said in your car today; ALL of it. So don't tell me to fucking clam down right now." Shawn stormed off, still agitated but no longer violently so. Not knowing whether to follow his friend or give him some time, Gus merely stood there, leaning back against the machine, causing the candy bar to fall into the dispenser.

Juliet came to stand beside Gus, shocked. "What was THAT about?"

Gus battled with himself on how to respond. He considered telling her, seeing as how she was the one who called his attention to the situation in the first place. But he held back. He didn't know if Shawn wanted others to know, and Juliet was closer to the situation than comfortable, being Lassiter's partner.

He was still standing there trying to decide how to answer when the doctor came in. "Are you detective Juliet O'Hara?

She turned and greeted the doctor. "Yes. That's me."

Shawn shot upright from where he had sat hunched in the waiting area across the room.

"Detective Lassiter is fine. He was hit in shoulder. We removed the bullet as he requested. He said to give it to you." She handed Juliet a urine specimen jar, a little bullet rattling around the bottom of it. "He's lucky, a few inches lower and he would have been hit in the heart. He's in recovery now."

"Can we go see him?" As Juliet asked, Shawn hopped up and made his way quickly to her side.

The doctor eyed the three of them. "I'm sorry, he's in the PACU. We can only have one visitor back there at a time right now. There's really no point; He's not even awake at the moment. After he wakes up and we make sure everything is stable we can move him into his own room."

Juliet looked at Shawn who was nearly vibrating on the spot with tension. "Shawn, why don't you go?"

He was through the doors the doctor had come through before she had even turned back toward them.

Gus appreciated that Juliet had let Shawn go back to see her partner. It was this fact that finally spurred Gus to talk.

"Shawn is in love with Lassiter."

"Yeah, so what are we going to do about it?"

"Well, we can't change how he feels, but I have mentioned that he might tone it down a little."

"Tone it down?"

"I guess he hasn't been too blatant about it, I mean, it took us this long to really notice it. Well, actually, it didn't. I've mentioned it to him before, but more in a 'Stop molesting the detective or he will arrest you,' way, and not a 'Stop looking at the detective with those puppy-love bedroom eyes or he will kill you,' way-"

"Carlton feels the same way."

"-but it wasn't until recently that we...WHAT?"

"Carlton feels the same way about Shawn."

"He said that to you?"

"Well, not in so many words, but I have seen them together."

"I've seen them together too. He hates Shawn. I mean, he's Lassiter. Shawn has tormented the man for years. He has always been very clear about his feelings on the matter."

"Things have changed lately, I don't know when or why, but they have."

"Okay, even if you look over his hatred, which would be like looking over Mt. Everest, there is still that fact that Lassiter is a divorced heterosexual Irish Catholic cop."

"And Shawn is the perpetual playboy bachelor who has had more tail than a donkey with a pin."

They looked at each other a few moments before both broke out in a laugh.

"Okay, I see your point. But even if you are right, what can we do about it?"

"Well, we have to get them together."

"How?"

"I have no idea."

-o-0-o-

The next morning found Gus, Shawn, Chief Vick, and Juliet in Carlton's hospital room. The other bed in the room was empty, which was where Shawn and Gus were perched. Juliet sat in the visitor's chair, and Vick stood at the foot of the bed next to the doctor.

Carlton was sitting up in bed, trying to pull his shoes on.

"No, I hate hospitals. This is where people go to die."

"This is where people come to heal, Mr. Lassiter. I'd really rather you stay."

"Come on, doc. I live less than five miles away from here."

"The only way I could even consider it would be if you had someone there with you 24/7, at least for the rest of the week."

"Yes! I can do that!"

"Alright, make arrangements, but no driving, and no activity more strenuous than blowing your nose."

"Fine, fine. I can do that."

"I'll start the paperwork." She left the room, recognising a losing battle when she saw one.

Chief Vick was still not convinced it was a good idea for her head detective to leave. "Who are you going to get to stay with you for a week? Your emergency contact lives in Boston. I called her; she can't catch a flight until this weekend."

"Oh, no, I am NOT having my mother stay in my house."

"Do you have any friends in the area?"

The detective looked hopefully over at Juliet, who immediately began shaking her head, mouth hanging open ready to protest, but the chief spoke up before O'Hara even had a chance to make a sound. "That would be inappropriate, Carlton. Plus, Juliet has work."

"Well, I could just come in to the station."

"No. No work, doctor's orders."

"Shit." The detective sat back onto his hospital bed in defeat.

"Shawn could do it." Gus spoke up, eyeing his best friend.

"No, Gus..." How could he even suggest something like that, Shawn wondered, knowing what he knew? Gus was right; Shawn needed to tone himself down around the detective. He needed to get himself under control. It would be a really bad idea for him to stay with the detective, especially after everything that had happened in the last day. He might say, or do, something that he would end up regretting.

"It's alright, I...It's fine." The detective reached down to pull the shoe off that he had been trying to lace up, but the bandage, or possibly the pain in his shoulder, caused him to gasp, and sit up straight again. Shawn immediately sprang off the bed to help the detective with his shoes. He remained kneeled at the side of the bed, looking up at the detective who was wincing and trying to breathe through the pain.

"I'll do it."

The detective opened his eyes and looked down at Shawn.

"If you want me, that is."

When the detective reluctantly nodded, Shawn reached down, and began tying the laces. The detective kept his eyes on the man as he tied the shoes, the look on his face so unguarded, Juliet was sure the Chief had to have noticed it. But by the time she had turned to see, the chief was already out the door, shooting a "Back to work, O'Hara, we have the shooter's partner to catch."

"Thank you, Spencer."

The psychic looked up into the detective's eyes, and Juliet hated the fact that she couldn't just grab Gus and leave the two men alone. Though, she thought with a hopeful swirl in her gut, they would have the next week together.

"I need a statement before I go." She reluctantly approached the side of Carlton's bed. He was still staring at Shawn, who had just finished lacing his second shoe and stood up.

"Gus, can I see you out in the hall?" All traces of the seeming-perpetual grin were absent from Shawn's face.

He and the psychic left, so the detective could do her job.

When they had gone into the hall and closed the door behind them, they sat in silence for a few minutes until Shawn spoke, "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"It's okay Shawn, I understand. You're-"

"I'm going to stick around so we can get him out of here quicker. Can you go pack a bag for me and bring it to Lassy's- to Lassiter's house?"

"Okay, and Shawn-"

"Don't worry, I'll behave myself. You were right about that too; I don't want him to kill me."

"He wouldn't..."

"I don't want him to hate me either."

"Shawn,-"

Juliet opened the door, interrupting whatever it was that Gus was about to say. "Okay, he's pretty tired, I bet he'll be out any minute."

Shawn turned to go back in the room.

"Wait."

Gus wanted to finish their conversation, but Shawn's eyes quickly flicked over to Juliet before he responded, "No, I get it. Don't worry about me. I don't know how long we'll be. I'll call you when they've let us go. I'll need to borrow your car, would you mind taking my bike?" He went back into the detective's room alone when Gus and he had silently exchanged keys.

"Shawn wants me to pack him a bag. Should we say something to either of them?"

"Did you see the way Carlton was looking at him? I don't think we need to say anything. Something might happen on its own pretty soon, especially if they keep Carlton on those heavy pain-killers."

Gus looked at the room door with a worried look on his face.

"Did you know Shawn was gay?"

"I didn't know for sure, though I have suspected, and even asked him a few times. Maybe it should have been obvious when his response was always to change the subject."

"I had no idea about Carlton."

"I don't think anyone has an idea about Lassiter, I don't think Lassiter even knows."

-o-0-o-

"Alright, here you go Mr. Lassiter." The nurse chipperly wheeled a chair into the room and locked the wheels, turning a sparkly blue-eyed and honey sweet smile on the detective.

"No, I'm not getting in that."

"It's hospital policy, sir."

"I can walk fine, see." He stood, but the small 5'3 nurse pushed him back down easily.

"You came in here on a stretcher. You're on a medication that causes light headedness and dizziness."

"I'll be fine. I'll sign a waiver or something. I won't sue if I fall and hit my head on a blood pressure monitor."

The sweet smile did not waver on her face, but the nurse's blue eyes turned to cold steel, clearly showing she meant business. "You either leave the hospital in this chair, or you don't leave at all."

The detective was not often intimidated, especially not by petite nurses in pristinely-starched pink scrubs, but he obeyed and sat in the chair, not even attempting to resist the helping hand she placed on his elbow as he moved into it.

"That's better, sir. Now here is your goody bag with replacement dressings, and your prescriptions. There is a printed sheet with instruction in there too, and I also told your friend what to do."

She placed a small paper bag on his lap and unlocked the wheels before wheeling him out of the room. The detective remained silent all the way down the hall, in the elevator, down another hall, out a pair of glass sliding doors, and onto the pavement outside the hospital. The nurse kept a hand clamped down on his shoulder until Shawn had pulled up to the curb in Gus's blue car. Again, the detective allowed her to help him into the passenger side, and even muttered a quick, "Thank you," as she stepped away to allow him to close the door. He kept his eyes on her in the rear view mirror as they pulled away. She stood, waving them off, the sweet smile still set on her face like a permanently painted-on Joker grin, only twice as disturbing.

"She was the most frightening thing I've ever seen, and I've witnessed murders."

"I know, I think they put them through some nurse tactical control and intimidation training before letting them loose on the floor."

The detective tore his eyes away from the rear-view mirror and looked at Shawn, who was smiling at him. His own chest tightened in a small chuckle, which he regretted immediately. His hands flew up to death-grip the dash.

"You okay? Do you want me to take you back?"

"Back there? No way! Just get me home."

Through slow shallow breathing, the pain had subsided by the time they pulled in to his driveway.

"Do you need me to help you up and into the house?"

As much as he hated to admit it, it did hurt less when he had something to lean on. He never realized how much he relied on his chest muscles until they hurt with each movement. He allowed the psychic to help him out of the car, and even leaned against him as they entered the house.

"Where would you like to go?"

"I'm incredibly tired, just help me to my room." He indicated the way with his free hand.

Shawn helped him all the way to his bed and into a sitting position. "Rest now, call out if you need anything. I'm going to go into the kitchen and call Gus and Jules to let them know we're here now." He left, pulling the door semi-close on his way out.

The injured man caught sight of himself in the mirror inside his open closet door. He wore the pants he had been shot in, and a light blue T-shirt with the hospital logo that Shawn had bought for him from the gift store when he had been complaining about his shirt and jacket, which had been ruined with his own blood and the doctor's shears. "The color really brings out your eyes," Shawn had said as he came back in the room after the nurse had helped the detective get dressed and put his arm back into the sling. He stared at the shirt in the mirror, remembering what Shawn had said. There was a bit of blood on his pant leg, but he didn't have it in him to change clothes. With the energy his body was taking to heal itself, even the trek up the single flight of stairs had him feeling like he had just complete a marathon. He had a feeling he would spend much of the next few days sleeping.

He slowly eased himself back and was asleep within seconds.

-o-0-o-

Carlton felt a painful throb shoot down his left side, which slung him from a deep slumber into the hazy grey state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness . The clock beside his bed read 8:00, and in the confusing mental fog that filled his brain, he could not tell whether that was AM or PM, or remember when he had fallen asleep or what day it was. One thing that he was completely aware of, though, was that his bladder was in serious need of emptying. He stumbled groggily out of bed and down the hall to his only bathroom.

If he had been more alert, he would have heard the noises coming from within. If his brain had been working a little faster, he would have remembered the last few days, and would have known that Shawn Spencer was currently staying in his house. In that case, he may have had the presence of mind to knock before entering. As it was, he was not used to having company. His mind could only focus on one thing at a time, and right then that thing was his need to pee.

He had opened the door and taken a step into the room before he registered that he was not alone in the bathroom. He looked toward the sink and saw Shawn Spencer standing before the mirror, wearing one brilliant white towel slung very low on his hips, and nothing else. Normally Carlton would apologise and close door, but as slow as his brain was working, he could only stand transfixed, taking in the curve of the other man's back, the muscles of his shoulders, the contrast of tan skin, as if the man spent his days in the sun, against the brilliant white of Carlton's towel. His brain was not working up to speed, but he was becoming aware of the fact that he should be responding to the situation.

Noticing the other man's presence, Shawn turn around to lean back against the sink. "Wow, you've been out for, like, 6 hours. I was actually going to check on you soon."

Carlton's mouth couldn't work. Shawn was in the middle of shaving, razor in hand, half his jaw covered in clear oil. His muscled chest sparkled with water droplets and a smattering of light brown fuzz. On his abdomen, which was defined with the hint of a six-pack, a little trail of the same light brown fuzz started just below his belly button and lead down into the towel, which was slung so low, the detective could trace with his eyes the two diagonal lines that started at the psychic's hip bones and sloped above his thighs, leading toward each other. Carlton knew that they would meet that vertical trail of hair at an apex just a few inches below the edge of the towel.

The detective was more aware now, but his nervous system was not working. His brain was telling his feet to move, but the appendages themselves stubbornly refusing to budge as if he was paralyzed below the waist. Well, not completely paralyzed below the waist...

-o-0-o-

"Well, Carlton. I've never heard of a reaction like this to the pain medication before." On phone, doctor sounded almost amused.

"When will it go away?"

"As I don't believe it to be a result of the medication, I think it will go away like any other erection. I wouldn't worry unless it lasts longer than 4 hours. Just remember, you were just shot and you're healing, no strenuous activity of any kind. But there is evidence that orgasms can be beneficial post-surgery. They act as a natural pain reliever, they can help you sleep, they release tension, and they increase blood flow, which facilitates healing. As long as you keep things slow and calm, and you are not experiencing pain, there is no reason you can't enjoy yourself or someone else."

"Um, okay. Thanks doc." He hung up the phone. "THAT won't be happening."

Shawn poked his head into the door. "What won't be happening?"

"Nothing, what do you want?"

"Well, the nurse said to help check your dressing after 6 hours. You're overdue."

"Oh. I can do it myself."

Shawn smiled at the other man, peering up at him through his lashes. "I don't see how, with your left arm in a sling."

"Go awa-"

"Oh, come on. I won't take 'no' for an answer."

Shawn walked into the room. He was dressed now, but Carlton couldn't help but think about what that polo shirt was covering. The detective quickly moved the blanket to hide his erection, causing his shoulder to twinge. His breath hissed out through his teeth.

"See." Shawn began to pull his sling and shirt off, actually managing to remove both without moving the injured arm. He must have had practice with immobilized arm injuries.

With the other man leaning in so close, the detective couldn't help the fact that Shawn's smell clouded his senses as he breathed in. He could smell the spicy tropical scent of whatever oil Shawn had been using to shave, the admittedly familiar scent of the man himself, and something else.

"You used my soap."

"Yeah, Gus forgot to pack mine." He slipped into an Irish accent, "Irish spring. Manly, yes, but I like it too."

The man's grinning face was a mere inches from Carlton's cheek.

Misinterpreting the uncomfortable look on the other man's face, Shawn's grin slid off his face as he said, "Don't worry, I'll buy you a new bottle."

He stepped back, having checked the bandages and seen that they didn't need to be changed yet. "Okay, done. Now, this will be easier next time if you keep your shirt off for a while."

Clinging desperately to the T-shirt as Shawn tried to pull it away, the detective protested, "No, I want my shirt."

"Okay, fine. Do you want to switch to a button-up so it'll be easier to get off."

Carlton's mind, still thinking about his erection and what had caused it, responded to last seven words of Shawn's sentence before the beginning part registered. "NO! I...Um, well, yes. That's a good idea."

He pointed to the drawer that held his new blue plaid flannel pyjamas. Shawn helped him get the shirt and sling on, before asking, "Do you want me to help you with the bottoms?"

"No. Uh, I'll...do it myself."

"Okay, I'll let you rest now. Do you want me to make you something to eat?"

The detective really needed Shawn out of the room, now. 'Shawn' was now co-mingling with 'bottoms' in his mind, and doing absolutely nothing to help him get rid of his erection. "No, I don't want any easy bake oven pineapple upside-down cake."

"I'll have you know I am quite a good chef, and do not require pineapple to make a savoury dish. Although, if you do have one, I make a kick-ass sweet and sour chicken."

That sounded good, but the detective needed him gone. "No, I just want to sleep."

Shawn's bright smile faltered, but stayed on his face as he backed out of the room. "Maybe later."

The psychic left the detective alone with the scent of his own soap mixed with the other man's shaving oil, and the memory of his smile.

It had been years since this situation had come up. Not an erection, but the mentality behind it. There had been a time in college when he had considered that he might be gay. Things had changed, though, and after a while those thoughts had been buried, lost in the day-to-day shuffle of life. It had gotten to a point when he had forgotten, at least on any conscious level, that it had ever happened. But it had all awoken anew when he had walked into his bathroom to see Shawn Spencer fresh out of a shower. He hadn't thought about it in so long, he didn't think it possible to even consider now. The good thing about masturbation is you don't have to think, you just have to feel. It's easy enough to ignore the images flashing through your mind, even if the subject of the visions would normally give you pause; the fleeting images of wicked stubbly grins, tanned muscles taut with exertion, beads of sweat glistening on a muscular chest touched with hair...afterward it is easy to forget, to slip into a drug and orgasm induced haze, and sleep.

TBC

A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reviewing. You are all very encouraging, and make it a joy to write. And Jen (drkbella), I'm sorry. I hate getting into WIPs by writers like me too. But your reviews are giving me the ass-kicking I need (and making me laugh), so thank you. I'm also focusing on Unsettling Discovery, just for you. We're so close on that one, I promise, it'll be done soon. Forgive me?

Sorry if there are typos herein. I finished it and posted it up quickly in response to the threats of bodily harm (again, drkbella). I'll fix any that are pointed out to me or that I find myself.


	7. Chapter 6

The next morning he awoke to a delicious smell filling his house. He made his way down to the kitchen to find Shawn standing before the stove, singing to himself in a surprisingly good tenor as he cooked some sort of sauce, adding spices, not bothering to measure things out, but appearing to improvise as he went along. Not yet remembering what had happened the night before, Carlton only remarked to himself that Shawn was disgustingly chipper for the early hour, and that he needed coffee if he was to tolerate it for long.

Not wanting to bother the psychic, the detective decided to make the coffee himself, as his shoulder was decidedly less painful than it had been the day before. He kept his coffee beans in the cabinet just above and to the right of the stove, and since he was tall enough to reach around the other man, he did so, moving forward so that his face was a mere inches behind the psychic's head. As his hand wrapped around the coffee beans he breathed in, filling his lungs with the delicious smell of what Shawn was cooking, and the man himself. Smelling that mixture of his own familiar soap and the spicy tropical shave oil caused his memories of the night before to come flooding back into his conscious. Caught off guard, he backed away quickly, dropping the container of coffee beans to the floor as he did so.

"Everything okay, Lassie?" Shawn turned to see the detective with a shocked look on his face, white as a sheet. "Oh, crap. You're overdue for your pain pills, aren't you? Sit down, I'll get them."

The younger man launched himself out of the room as Carlton fell back into a chair at the kitchen table, shocked into mental silence. Only a strange buzzing sound filled his mind.

Shawn came in with a large blue pill, and a small white one. He laid them on the table in front of the older man and went to the sink to fill a small glass with orange juice. As he handed Carlton the glass, the men's fingers momentarily brushed each other, and Carlton's belly swooped down as if he had fallen off a cliff. Their eyes locked and younger man smiled, asking "You alright?"

Not able to speak, the detective merely nodded his head. Shawn pat him gently on the shoulder before turning back toward the stove.

"I'm making breakfast fajitas à la Spencer, I hope that's okay."

The detective watched the man cook, dumfounded and totally confused. He was feeling things he hadn't felt in a VERY long time, and he was finding himself unable to understand what was going on. He had jacked off thinking about Shawn Spencer. The mere sight of the man wearing only a towel had caused his body to respond in a totally confusing, not to mention horrifying, way. He hadn't responded that strongly to someone in years, and he had not felt like that about a man...he hadn't felt that...since college. His chest constricted as he remembered all those years ago. This WASN'T his first time feeling an attraction to a man. Something had almost happened with his college roommate, but nothing had ever come of it. It had come shockingly close, but then things had changed, and everything had been swept under a rug*. Why, after more than ten years, had these feelings suddenly come up again? And why was it Shawn Spencer who brought them up? Sure, the detective knew the other man was attractive, that was an objective fact that Carlton was not oblivious to. He also knew that O'Hara and Guster were attractive. Knowing someone is attractive, and BEING attracted to them are two different things. It made no sense for him to BE attracted to Shawn, he hated the man.

He looked up at the man.

No, that wasn't true. The man often annoyed him, but even back when they had first met, when their professional relationship was at its most strained, he didn't hate the psychic. He could even admit to himself that he had begun to see the man differently lately, but that didn't change the fact that Shawn Spencer was often a thorn in the side of detective Lassiter. How could this happen?

He continued watching the man. He was chopping vegetables at a speed the seemed unsafe, picking them up on the blade of the knife and dropping them into a sizzling pan. Like the psychic himself, Shawn kept the pan in a state of perpetual motion over the fire of the gas stove. Periodically adding spices with his left hand, he would shift the pan violently forward and backward, every once in a while tossing the diced vegetables up the sloped side of the pan and into the air, before catching them again. The detective watched, warmth growing in his stomach with each flip of the pan. Finally Shawn gave the veggies a particularly high flip, not spilling a single morsel over the edge. The simple sight of those vegetables falling through the air back toward the sizzling surface of the pan gave Carlton the almost irresistible urge to grab Shawn and push him back against the counter, to press the length of his body into the other man as their lips met in a kiss that sizzled and popped more than those veggies in the oil.

Instead, he tore his eyes away from the other man's backside, picked up the pills Shawn had laid before him, and made his way back upstairs. He found himself in the bathroom, leaning over the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. He didn't think he looked right; though his features were all as they usually were, there was just something that seemed off. Or maybe he was looking for something to be different. He had thought he had had a pretty good handle on who he was. Except for one turbulent time in college, (and come on, it's college-everyone is confused at that time in their lives), he was pretty sure he knew what he wanted. He had never exactly had a happy romantic life, but his job was more than fulfilling. He had just never felt this level of attraction for anyone in his life. He had loved his wife, but never had he been this drawn to her. Although it was a physical attraction (and boy was it!), he thought that there was more to it than that. He had been feeling something was different for a while now, which had been troubling enough on its own. This just completed the cycle.

His mind, body, and soul were all screaming to be close to Spencer, but he worked with this man on a regular basis, and these feelings were inappropriate. Not only that, but the detective was too old to put his life through the kind of upheaval that would accompany this kind of revelation. He would have to sweep it all under the rug. He had done it once in his life. He would have to do it again, and Carlton knew what he had to do.

He dropped the pills in the sink and ran the water over them, watching them slowly dissolve in the stream of water, disappearing down the drain. They messed with his equilibrium too much, he could feel the slowness and lethargy they clouded his mind with, the sluggishness they imposed on his body, and perhaps they had something to do with the physical ache in his chest that he somehow felt whenever he thought about Spencer. He took a deep breath, looking back at the mirror one final time, then turned and made his way back to his bedroom.

He picked up the phone on the bedside table, and dialled. After the second ring a feminine voice answered, "Hello?"

The detective grit his teeth and replied, "Hello, mother."

-0-0-0-

She made plans to fly to Santa Barbara on Friday, which gave the detective three more days with the psychic before she arrived. He resigned himself to trying to keep his thoughts under control until she got there, when the physical distance between him and the psychic could help him gain some needed emotional distance. He would not have to see Shawn again until he was back at work. He could handle himself then, in control and on the job in the only place he had ever felt truly at home, not vulnerable and injured.

The detective never considered that this would be easier said than done. The more time he spent with the younger man, the more he found himself attracted. Each time the man helped him change his dressings, or cooked him another irritatingly delicious meal (which were rarely appropriate for the time of day-fajitas for breakfast and loaded pancakes for dinner), or made some charming off-hand comment as they watched TV, he would find thoughts stirring that would not go away, no matter how hard he tried.

He became more and more cold toward Shawn as the days passed, spending more and more of his time locked in his room. The younger man stayed as friendly as ever, though thankfully he kept his physical distance whenever possible. Carlton was at least grateful for this; he didn't think he could handle it if the psychic invaded his personal space while his thoughts and feelings were so confused.

In the most cowardly move of all, he couldn't bring himself to tell Shawn that he had called his mother. He kept putting it off, scared of where the conversation would lead if he brought it up. Finally on Thursday evening, as they sat on the sofa watching TV and an ad for a local Greek place had inspired Shawn to make some off-hand comment about what he would make for dinner the following night, the detective finally said something.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? My mother's coming. She'll be here tomorrow, mid morning."

"Ah, I'll finally be able to meet Mrs. Lassie! Does SHE like feta cheese?"

"Um, I figured you were eager to get back into your own space. I called her so you could go."

Trying to hide his disappointment, it only flashed momentarily across the psychic's face before he offered, "Okay, Lassie, we've probably been in close contact a bit too long as it is."

The detective had to look away. "I appreciate you volunteering to stay with me, but yes, I think we have."

The psychic's only response was to look down at his feet.

"I'm incredibly tired. I'm going to bed." Carlton got up and made his way up the stairs.

"G'night Lassie," he heard Shawn finally call up behind him, in a voice that sounded way too hopeful for the detective to listen to just then.

"Good night Shawn," he said quietly to himself so that the other man couldn't hear.

He made his way to his room, telling himself that this was not the coward's way out. He COULDN'T tell Shawn about the way he felt. Shawn was the epitome of heterosexual. This wasn't running away, this was saving himself the turmoil that confessing his feelings to a straight man-one he happens to work with-would cause. Why bother pursing these feelings, no matter how right they felt at the time, when they wouldn't be returned anyway? Hopefully he could make himself forget again, bury the feelings so they wouldn't resurface. If they never came up again, there was no point even bothering to examine or analyze them.

It would be like a finding out you loved the taste of Tyrannosaurus Rex meat above any other food. What would it matter? Tyrannosaurus is extinct and you won't ever be able to eat it, so why bother agonizing over the fact that you would be happy if you could go your whole life eating noting but Tyrannosaurus?

That's what he told himself as he got ready for bed that night, and dreamed of Shawn being buried alive wearing the giant Tyrannosaurus Rex head from the case a few years ago.

xoXOxo

The detective slept fitfully, and spent the following morning nervously peering out the front window, waiting for his mother to appear. Shawn had made him an inappropriate breakfast again – for the last time, Carlton told himself – but he only pushed it around his plate while Shawn ate his with his usual amount of gusto.

Finally, at ten, his mother arrived. The taxi pulled up into his driveway, and the driver helped his mother up to the house with her bags. There was an awkward moment at the door as he introduced Shawn and his mother.

"I'll bring your bags up to the guest room." In an attempt to escape the situation, he started grabbing her luggage.

"Oh, Lassie. Let me get that. You have a bum arm. Stay here and catch up with your mom."

"No, I can manage, I'll take them."

"No, you really... You probably shouldn't."

"Back off, Spencer! I've got it."

The men locked eyes for a second, and Shawn put his hands up, as if Lassiter had pulled a gun. "Okay, you've got it."

Shawn backed away playfully, arms still raised in the air, watching Lassiter turn and struggle up the stairs under the weight of the bags.

Still smiling, he turned back to Lassiter's mother, who was looking at him speculatively.

"What is going on between you and my son?"

Shawn was thrown off guard by her question. "What?" he asked pathetically, not quite understanding what she meant.

She sighed, and leaned back on the kitchen counter, crossing her arms and looking down in what Shawn assumed was disappointment. "Has he finally figured it out? I've been waiting for this since he was a teenager. I'm surprised it took this long."

Shawn looked at her, mouth hanging open, not even sure how to respond. She met his eyes, and he felt trapped like a deer in headlights. Had his eyes lingered too long on the detective's butt as he made his way up the stairs? Could she tell how Shawn felt about her son? Would she say something to him?

His panic was interrupted by a crash from above, followed by Lassiter's yell of, "Shit!"

Shawn raced up the stairs and into the guest room. He found Lassie sitting on the edge of the bed, his forehead leaning against the headboard, cringing. The larger suitcase lay between the bed and the end table, which had been knocked over.

Shawn got down on knees in front of the other man, and put a calming hand on each of Lassiter's arms. "Are you okay?"

The detective looked at him, breathing hard, but did not answer.

Movement behind him caught Shawn's attention, and he turned to find Lassiter's mother picking up the table and putting the fallen lamp back on it.

"It looks like the light bulb broke."

"I'll get a new one." Shawn jumped up and started heading for the door.

She stopped his progress with a hand on his shoulder. "No, son. You go on home now, I'll take over from here." She pulled him into an entirely unexpected hug, saying, "Thank you for taking care of my boy," before pulling away. She gave him a pat on the cheek, then turned toward the door and made her way down the hall to the utility closet under the stars. Shawn turned to look at Lassiter, who still sat on the edge of the bed.

"Well, I guess I'll see you later."

He turned to go, and had nearly made it to the door of the guest room when Carlton spoke.

"Spencer," the psychic turned toward the detective. He looked utterly frustrated, and something in the way he sat there looking back at Shawn started the gears turning in the back of the psychic's mind. A thought was struggling to form, but Shawn didn't yet know what it was.

"Thanks for being here these last few days."

"Any time, Lassie."

A/N:

* I have plans to write a prequel to this story, which will include the asterisked storyline, but I will not start that one until this one is complete.


	8. Chapter 7

Lassiter had returned to work. Technically it was a few days early, but he couldn't stand to be around his mother a second longer. His stitches were healing nicely, in fact they were to the point of itching like hell, and his chest muscles still protested when in use, but he would take that pain over the tension headache he suffered whenever he was around his mother. She had criticized the detective for everything from his furniture and the clothes he wore to his choice of job and his failed marriage. She also tried to talk about Spencer a lot. Since that was the topic he was most trying to get his mind off of, he shut that door each time she tried to reopen it. She would be staying in Santa Barbara for four more days, so the detective was planning to get as much overtime as possible in that time.

As he finally set his eyes on his desk after a week away from it, he felt the mother-induced tension beginning to slip away from his muscles. It took the chief some convincing that he was ready to return to work; she seemed to be trying to push a visit with the department psychologist on him. He assured her that he was fine, and she reluctantly filled him in on the cases O'Hara had started working on in his absence.

"Oh! Hi, Carlton. How was your vacation?" Juliet was surprised, but pleased, when she saw her partner sit down at his desk.

"It wasn't a vacation; I was recovering from surgery," he replied curtly.

She had expected him to be in a better mood when he got back. Of course, he was back earlier than she had expected as well, but still, almost a week spent with someone he obviously had strong feelings for should have left him in a better mood than this. She tried a different tack, "How's Shawn doing?"

"Fine, I assume. I haven't seen him since Friday."

"Wasn't he supposed to be staying with you?"

"He was; then he left." Carlton was certainly not being very informative. She was just about to try again when he interrupted her thoughts, "So, get me up to speed on the Perkins case."

They had fallen back into their usual work groove pretty quickly. Nothing seemed overtly different about the man, that is, until the psychic showed up at the station. Shawn had seemed surprised when he looked over toward Carlton's desk and saw the detective there, bent over a pile of paperwork. He had greeted Juliet warmly, then made his way to the detective's desk to do the same there. The detective didn't even look up from the paperwork he was filling out, only shooting a terse "Spencer," as a greeting in return. The psychic seemed to be trying to get the detective's attention, but the detective was not helping at all. At one point Shawn had put his hand on the other man, inquiring as to how the healing was going. The detective had only stiffened, not even looking up at the other man as he said, "Spencer, kindly remove your hand from my neck."

It had only got worse as the day wore on, and the detective hadn't been proud of his behaviour. He had regressed somewhat in his attitude toward Spencer, often defaulting to anger like he hadn't done since the first few months he had known the man. Since back then, his position had mellowed somewhat, and it had been years since he had found himself seriously manhandling the psychic.

But now, it seemed to be his reflex response whenever Shawn did something that made the detective uncomfortable. Unfortunately even the way the younger man looked the detective in the eye made him uncomfortable, or maybe he was just too nervous to return that gaze for long. Anger seemed to be the only way he could control himself around the man. It was either throw the other man up against the wall and yell at him, or throw him up against the wall and...

Anger kept those types of thoughts away.

Shawn had somehow wormed his way into their case again, ensuring that the detective would have no reprieve from the psychic's presence. It had all come to a head when the psychic had been explaining how the ice cream truck was being used as the front for a drug smuggling ring. He had decided to use Carlton as a prop, rubbing his palms up and down Carlton's upper arms as he described the tattoos the Unsub had on both biceps, and Carlton snapped. He violently pushed the younger man against the wall, holding him there with an arm across his throat. He was pressing Shawn back into the wall with the entire length of his body in attempts to get in the man's face. He was pressing hard enough that Shawn's eyes had gone wide, and he didn't seem to be able to take a breath, but just as quickly as he had flown at the man, he had jumped away as if he had been stabbed. He looked Shawn up and down once, a look of confusion on his face, before disappearing down the steps of the precinct. He didn't even stay to hear the rest of Shawn's recap of what had happened.

The detective had fled and locked himself in a filing room. When he had lost his temper and gotten too close to the psychic he had felt something in the heat between their bodies, something firm. In a momentary wave of panic he realised that his body had begun to respond to the touch of Shawn's hands on his arms. He thought that the firm pressure he had felt had been his growing erection, but as he tore his body away from that wonderful heat, he realised that that had not been the case. The angle had been wrong, and the firmness he had felt had not been a part of his own body, but a part of the other man's, or perhaps he had had a roll of Lifesavers in his pocket. Knowing Spencer, that was probably the case.

-0-0-

Gus was sitting at the desk in his office at what Shawn disparagingly called his "other job." He didn't have anything to do, because over the years he had become so used to squeezing his work at his pharmaceuticals job into the dead time between working cases or being otherwise occupied with one of Shawn's many distractions, he had found that by mid morning every day he had completed everything he had to do for the day. He was just playing a game on his computer when he noticed a figure appear in his office doorway out of the corner of his eye.

He looked up to find Shawn leaning silently on the door frame.

"Shawn, why aren't you at Lassiter's house?"

"Can we go somewhere?"

"Sure. Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere but here."

Glad for the distraction, since he had finished his work an hour ago, he got up and told the receptionist that he was taking a long lunch, and may not be back for the day.

Once they got out to the car, Gus asked again, "Why aren't you at Lassiter's house?"

"He called his mother to come relieve me of my duties. She got here yesterday." Shawn said it lightly, but Gus knew he had to be disappointed.

"How had the week been going? You two spend the whole time at each other's throats?" He probed hopefully, deliberately wording the question so it could be taken any number of ways.

Shawn didn't take the bait. "No, it was pretty peaceful. The meds had him sleeping most of the time. But he's actually back to work now. I saw him there when I stopped by to see Jules."

As they made their way to the Psych office, they made small talk. Gus was struck by how subdued the usually exuberant man was. When they pulled into a parking space in front of Psych, Shawn turned right and started heading toward the ocean rather than turning left and heading into the office. The psychic sat on a bench just this side of the boardwalk, silently staring out at the water. It all made Gus very uneasy. He figured now was as good a time as any to have a certain talk with his best friend, and sat next to the man on the bench.

"Shawn, are you gay?" The man didn't answer right away, and only a small chuckle let Gus know that he had heard the question at all.

Finally, he spoke, "Since junior high I've thought that I was bisexual. It's not exactly something I was happy about, so I figured that I could be with women, and ignore any feelings for men. But what you said in the car was right, every woman I've been with, I always felt like something was missing." He finally turned away from the ocean view to look at Gus. "Don't get me wrong, women are beautiful, I LOVE spending time with women, but..."

"They're not what you really want in the end."

Shawn nodded, looking back toward the water.

"Have you been with a man before?"

"Been with? Now, there's a loaded term that could be taken any number of ways. I've never 'been with' a man, but I did fool around with a few guys while I was on the road. I figured I'd try to get it out of my system. It mostly worked, until..." He grew quiet, looking introspectively down into his lap.

"Why Lassiter?"

At the mention of the detective's name, a sad smile passed over Shawn's face. "I don't know. I always thought he was attractive. And the way I could ruffle his feathers, I...I loved getting under his skin. I mean, he's so serious, he's so in control. Don't get me wrong, it can be incredibly hot. Lassie the tough cop has featured in many of my dreams and fantasies. But he...I just want to see him cut loose. I love it when that little crease between his eyebrows disappears. It happens so rarely, but when he smiles, or...when his facade slips or when he's in the right mood... There's parts of him that I didn't see when we first met him. There's probably more I haven't seen yet, but- God, I want to see it. I want to see it all." As he spoke his eyes traced the shore, the people walking along the piers, sometimes followed the flight of a bird in the sky, but as he finished speaking, he finally met Gus's eyes, trying to make the point as clear as he could. "Do you realise I've NEVER felt like this about ANYONE before?"

"Yes, Shawn. I have noticed."

"It's just my luck, man. I finally find someone; I want him in every way possible. He's unbelievably sexy, smart, snarky, gorgeous blue eyes, grey hairs just starting to pop up in that thick soft hair I want to run my fingers through, handcuffs, gun holster, civil war re-enactments, tap dancing, possible cowboy fetish, tall, dark, and handsome, suit, tie and badge: Head Detective Carlton Lassiter. That shows you how bad I've got it, that I find everything I just said alluring. There's just one thing, he hates my guts. Oh, and he's also strai..."

Shawn stopped talking mid-sentence and got that look in his eyes that Gus knew quite well. His head cocked to the side slightly and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. It was his clue-face, but since he seemed to be directing it at a seagull that was trying to eat a wad of chewing gum off the sidewalk, Gus rightly assumed that what Shawn was analyzing was a memory.

"Oh my God! Gus, I have to go."

-0-0-

When he had finally emerged from the filing room he had snuck back to his desk, studiously avoiding any interaction with others. He had been sitting there for the past hour, trying to look engrossed in paperwork.

"Carlton, step into my office, please?" He looked up to find Chief Vick standing in the doorway to her office. He knew this was coming, he rose from his chair slowly, dreading what might be to come.

She waited until he had closed the door behind himself to speak. "What are you still doing here?"

"Uh..Well, I have this report to fill out."

"You should have been done with that by now."

"I also have some other things to do..."

"Not tonight, you don't. You were shot a week ago. You're not even supposed to be back until Wednesday."

"I'm fine, Chief. I have work to do."

"Nothing that can't wait until Wednesday."

"But, I..."

"GOOD NIGHT, Carlton. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. And I don't want you coming in tomorrow, either."

He was tempted to ask her about what had happened with Shawn, but if she wasn't going to bring it up, he certainly wasn't going to. He knew that technically what he did would be considered assault. Despite the fact that the choke hold had only lasted a second or two, even he would have to admit he had gone way overboard. He wondered if she was waiting until he got back to reprimand him, or whatever else she was planning to do. He was just too nervous to ask, so he turned to go.

There was no way he was going home, not while his mother was there. What the chief had said had tempted him to stop by a bar, but somehow he thought drowning his sorrows was about the last thing he should be doing just then. He needed clarity and confidence and there was only one thing he could think of that would give it to him.

00-00

A quick look around the station let Shawn know that the detective duo was nowhere around. When he had gone by their desks to check, the chief had signalled Shawn and beckoned him into her office.

"They're not here right now," she offered as he entered, "they both went home for the day."

"Oh, thanks." Shawn turned around to leave again, but the chief stopped his progress.

"Spencer, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, chief. Need some help on another case? Something I can help you figure out?"

"No. But I wonder if YOU need some help figuring something out."

"What do you mean?"

"What happened today? With you and Carlton?"

"Oh, you know how we are. Same old, same old."

"Yes, I know how it is with you two. I've known for years. Did he finally say something to you? Is that what this was about?"

"Uuuummm, I don't follow."

"Are you in love with him?"

"Um, uh...I, ah."

"Wow, speechless. That's not like you."

"Wha- what makes you think..."

"I've ignored this tension between the two of you up until now. The help you've provided on cases has far outweighed any distraction, and frankly, I often amuse myself with speculations on which of you will be the first to crack. But today got out of hand."

"I'm sorry, chief."

"Did something happen between you two?"

Shawn took a deep breath, steeling himself to tell the truth. This would be his first time saying it out loud to anyone but Gus. "Nothing happened, aside from me finally realizing that I AM in love with him...And I think maybe he might have realized something too, I'm not sure what. I was coming here to talk to him about it."

"I told him not to come back for a few days, and a conversation like the one I think you're going to have is probably not appropriate for the station, but he has obviously had a stressful day, I'm sure you can catch him somewhere else." She gave him a knowing look, before turning her attention back to the file on her desk.

Shawn couldn't believe the conversation he was currently having, much less think about the one that would follow. But what the chief said had obviously been a dismissal, and he could only thank her as he made his way back toward her door.

"And Spencer, if you hurt my Head Detective...I know fifty different ways to kill a man, and I'm friends with a lot of judges."

Her threat only caused him to smile.


	9. Chapter 8

The talk with the chief done nothing but increased Shawn's need to speak to the detective. There were only three places Shawn could think of that the detective might have gone. Shawn sensed that Carlton wouldn't have gone home, so he stopped quickly by Tom Blair's Pub to check for the detective. He was relieved to find that the detective wasn't there, which left only one place...

Sure enough, he found the detective's car parked outside. This late in the day, he wasn't surprised to see that it was the only one in the lot. He went inside, the familiar smell he had secretly liked since he was a child filling his nose. It reminded him of sparklers and firecrackers on the Fourth of July. It also reminded him of going to the shooting range with his father as a kid, the only part about Henry's "police training" that Shawn had always enjoyed. How many other nine year olds had shot a 9mm Glock? It had made him a god during recess until Junior High, when Davey Michaels had been the first in their year to lose his virginity, and suddenly none of the other boys seemed to care about guns any more. He nodded a greeting toward the attendant he was on friendly terms with, rented out a gun and some ammo, and made his way toward the range.

Lassiter was the only one shooting. He had staked his post at the far end of the range, furthest away from the entrance. Shawn approached slowly, allowing himself time to appreciate the detective as he shot. Lassiter was just hot; there was no way around it. His body was lithe, tight lean muscle stretched over his tall frame. You might be tempted to call him lanky, except that when he moved he was actually quite graceful. He was definitely strong, but he had more of the body of a runner or someone who did yoga, not the blunt, stocky body of a lifter. The way he moved, confident and aware of his body, just added to the sex appeal. To top it all off, he was intelligent, and even funny (even when he wasn't trying to be). He could even keep up with Shawn in a verbal exchange, something few people were able to do. Most importantly, he was a good man. If there was one thing Shawn could be sure of, Lassiter would never become the dirty cop, everything he stood for was right, and good. He was always on the straight and narrow. In fact, Shawn had assumed that the detective was straight in every possible way, but now he wondered if he had read the man wrong all these years. Shawn needed to find out, because if the detective was not completely straight in this one specific way, Shawn could be the luckiest man in the world.

The detective finished off his current loaded round, wincing more than usual with every recoil. Obviously, his injured arm was still bothering him. Shawn waited for the man to start reloading to approach; sneaking up on a man holding a loaded gun was not exactly a smart move.

"Should you really be putting your shoulder through abuse like this, Carlie? I'm sure I remember the doc saying something about physical exertion for a week after surgery."

An exasperated sign was the only reply Shawn got.

"Besides-"

"What are you doing here?" Carlton had turned toward the psychic in annoyance, interrupting.

"I came to shoot, just like you, Lassy."

"Enough with the pet names, Spencer. I'm not your pet, and I'm not your ..." He turned to look away, not wanting to think about what the rest of that sentence would have been.

"Alright, Carlton" That was worse, hearing his name on the psychic's lips, spoken in a slightly breathy whisper. "I came here because I recently realised something kinda big, and I needed to go somewhere to think it through."

"Oh yeah, and what was that?" He raised his gun, following the line of his thumb to aim it, before checking his sights. His aim was spot on as always. He took a breath and was preparing to squeeze the trigger on his exhale when Shawn finally answered.

"That I'm gay."

Hearing this made the detective's shoulders jump almost imperceptibly. It might have even gone without notice except that he had been pulling a trigger at the time, and his shot went off course, hitting the wall five feet above the target he had been aiming at. He didn't even pay attention to his blatant misfiring, though, because of the surges of emotion that were washing over him. First he felt like the floor had fallen out beneath his feet, but in a good way. Then just as quickly, the weightless feeling was drowned in a wave of anger.

He finally turned to the other man, who seemed to be avoiding his eye contact on purpose.

"And you though a bit of time at the shooting range would help you sort that out?"

"It's helped me think in the past."

"Spencer, have you even shot a gun before?"

"Yes," the younger man finally looked up at the detective, "I'm an excellent shot, I'll have you know."

"Yeah, right." He raised his own gun again, hoping that he could just ignore the psychic until the range closed to the public. He could make it twenty more minutes. He lifted his gun again, shooting out five shots in quick succession, before a painful throb in his shoulder made him gasp. To cover, he went to reload, and Spencer let out a five shots beside him.

"Way to go, Spencer. You didn't even put a target up."

"I'm using your target."

Carlton looked up quickly as he reloaded. "Well, you missed."

"Did I?"

Carlton hit the button to pull the paper target in closer, it was only when it got within ten feet that he saw the bullet holes, each of Shawn's lined up with each of his, making it look as if he had been shooting with bullets shaped like figure eights. He tore the target down and put up a clean one, pressing the button to send it as far back as it would go.

"Do that again." He demanded, before shooting the target seven times, hitting the head, neck, heart, left shoulder, right shoulder, solar plexus, and groin of the black figure printed on the paper. He then turned to watch Shawn shoot.

The psychic picked up his gun, and assumed the correct stance. His technique was flawless, and the detective watched as he braced himself before letting off seven more shots. He watched as Shawn's chest, arm, and back muscles tightened against each recoil. The way they momentarily strained under the thin fabric of his polo shirt. He didn't even look at the target, transfixed as he was on the movement of Shawn's muscles. His anger rose even more. He had hoped to catch Shawn in a lie, but had found that the man actually could shoot. It made him even angrier that he found watching Shawn shoot to be one of the most erotic experiences of his life.

"Not buying it, Spencer."

"Enough with the pet names, Carlton. I'm not your pet, and I'm not your boyfriend."

It perturbed him that Shawn had completed his own sentence from earlier. "Spencer IS your name."

"My name is Shawn."

"Fine, I'm not buying it, SHAWN."

"Not buying what? I showed you I could shoot."

"You're not gay."

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not."

"What are you, the expert on gay?"

"Maybe I am!" Shawn was flustering him, and he was making mistakes. He needed to stop speaking now. He turned back toward the counter in front of him, and began refilling his magazine.

"Do I have to give you a blow job to prove it to you?"

Carlton twitched again, dropping the half full magazine to the countertop and knocking the open box of bullets to the floor. He turned to glare at Shawn, but was shocked into silence when the man dropped to his knees at Carlton's feet. For a second he thought Shawn actually was actually going to give him a blow job, but then he realised Shawn was just picking up the bullets that had rolled everywhere. He put them all back in the box, then rose slowly back to his feet, his eyes tracing up Carlton's body as he did so. He placed the bullets back on the counter and took a step toward Carlton. Face only inches away from the taller man's. They were locked into each other's gaze.

"Carlton, I AM gay."

Carlton could only gulp, unable to speak, or even step away from the younger man. Finally he forced out a nod.

That seemed to be enough for Shawn, who moved back to his own counter and picked up the gun again.

The detective just stood there, not able to move or speak. What if what Shawn said was true? And what was that look he had given Carlton when he had been on his knees? Could that mean...? Did Shawn...? Was the risk worth what Carlton suddenly had the urge to do?

Finally able to move, he stepped forward and placed his hand on Shawn's wrist, pushing down gently until Shawn lowered the gun and placed it in the table. He didn't know where the daring suddenly came from; all he knew was that his heart was pounding as he gently pushed back on Shawn's shoulder, making him turn to face the detective. He only took a moment to take in the questioning and almost hopeful look in the other man's eyes before bending forward to kiss him.

It took only a moment for Shawn to respond, eagerly wrapping his arms around the detective's neck, pulling the taller man closer. This encouragement was all it took, and suddenly Carlton's tentative kiss deepened. He found himself pushing the younger man back into the partition behind him, pressing their bodies together at every point he possibly could. He wasn't even aware he had started making a slow, steady grinding motion until Shawn broke the kiss, head falling back against the wall as he let out a long, low moan. Carlton found the response so sexy, he didn't even consider stopping, instead letting his teeth graze Shawn's neck as he began to kiss him there instead.

That is, until a throat clearing behind them reminded them that they were technically in a public place. It was only after Carlton had pushed himself away from the wall, and Shawn's rumpled form, that the attendant realised that it was the psychic who the detective had been grinding into against the wall.

"Um, I'm sorry detective, and uh...Shawn. We're closing up now. I need to check Shawn's gun back in."

Shawn, still breathless, nodded.

The men packed up side by side, not saying anything to each other. Shawn returned his gun, and came back into the range to find the detective already gone.


	10. Chapter 9

Disappointed, Shawn made his way out of the shooting range, ready to climb on his bike and make his way home. He was surprised and elated to find Carlton leaning back against the passenger side of his own car when he made it to the parking lot.

"I think you and I have some things to talk about," he said, looking up at Shawn with an unreadable expression.

"Want to come back to my place?" Shawn tried to make it sound suggestive, but somehow he thought it just sounded hopeful.

Carlton only nodded, and opened his passenger side door, standing aside to let Shawn enter. It felt weird for Shawn; not just having another man open the car door for him, but the whole situation.

They had just got caught pressed into each other with Carlton's lips on Shawn's neck in the shooting range frequented by every cop in the SBPD, and Shawn didn't know how the detective felt about that. Personally, Shawn thought it had been the single sexiest moment of his life, up until the moment when the attendant had interrupted them. He supposed the timing was better than if he had waited a few more minutes, in which case he would have likely walked in on Shawn creaming his pants as Carlton pressed him into the wall. Still, Shawn didn't know the attendant's feelings toward homosexuality. For all he knew, the man would be spreading what he HAD witnessed around the department like wildfire. He wondered if Carlton was thinking the same thing.

Personally, if there was a possibility of getting everything he wanted in this situation, he would scream his feelings from a mountaintop and not care who heard or what they thought of it. From the way the other man had kissed him, Shawn thought Carlton wanted him just as badly, but he honestly didn't know what to expect from the detective when they made it to his apartment. This threw him off more than anything. Of all the times to NOT know what would happen (which even though he wasn't really a psychic, he often did), the one time Shawn wished he knew what was coming was the one time he was honestly in the dark.

Being Shawn, he tried to diffuse the situation with humour. "We can go parking, but I won't let you get to second base until you give me your letterman's pin."

The detective didn't respond, only started up the car and made their way toward Shawn's place.

Trying to gain some ground in the situation, Shawn took over when they got there.

"This would probably be a good time to tell you that I've wanted you for some time now. I-"

As he spoke he turned toward the detective, expecting to see some form of panic on his face. He wasn't expecting a look of pure lustful hunger. The taller man started toward him in a slow, predatory way, but instead of menace, his whole demeanour dripped unadulterated sex. When he reached Shawn he put a hand on his chest, splaying his fingers before sliding it slowly upward, flowing the curve of his shoulder around to the back of his neck, where he used his strength to pull Shawn the rest of the way toward him.

Shawn expected to be kissed, but instead the detective buried his face in Shawn's hair, bringing the hand on the back of his neck up and running his fingers through the thick tufts. His other hand made an appearance, first touching Shawn's side, before sliding back around the psychic's back and pulling him closer. It was technically only a hug, but it made Shawn's heart start pounding ferociously. He wrapped his arms around the other man, leaning in, only pulling back when the arm on his back slipped under his shirt. He tilted his face up just as Carlton tilted his down, and their mouths met in a slow, sensual kiss. Shawn immediately opened his mouth, enjoying the warm dampness of the other man's lips, and the occasional brush of their tongues. His heart was pounding so hard now; he thought he could feel it in every part of his body.

At a soft tug Shawn pulled away again. Carlton's other hand had joined the first one under his shirt, and they were both now pulling up on the garment. Shawn lifted his arms so the shirt could be pulled over his head, dropping them back down as Carlton took a step back, gazing up and down his now bare torso.

The man moved forward again, reaching a hand out to explore Shawn's abdomen with light brushes of fingertips.

"Where's the bedroom?" the detective asked in a voice that was surprisingly low and rough with need.

Shawn grabbed Carlton's hand and led him to the room, pulling the other man in behind him. Once inside, Carlton moved in behind Shawn, pressing himself against the younger man's back. There was a full length mirror hung on the wall opposite the door, and Carlton stood there, taking in the reflection of Shawn's body off its surface. He snaked his arms around the other man and began exploring Shawn's chest and stomach. He paid particular attention to his pleasure trail, following the slop of his groin down into the waistband of Shawn's jeans, finally touching that bit of skin he hadn't been able to get out of his mind since the night he came home from his surgery and woken to find Shawn fresh out of the shower. He was fairly certain that it would fast become one of his favourite parts of Shawn's body. Shawn laid his head back on the detective's shoulder, turning his head and kissing Carlton's neck.

When he heard and felt Carlton unzipping his pants, he reached a hand up to cradle the back of the man's head, nuzzling closer into that neck. The detective pushed his jeans and boxers slowly down his hips, hands still exploring every bit of skin he could reach. Shawn felt like he was going to explode. Even though the detective hadn't yet touched his cock, he was already panting. The anticipation had built so much, Shawn felt like he would snap. Finally, Carlton Wrapped a hand around Shawn, his other still exploring the planes and crevices of Shawn's belly.

He moved slow at first, savouring the feel of the other man in his hand. Shawn was in no hurry to rush him. Now that the detective was finally touching him in this way, he could take as much time as he wanted. Carlton stayed focused on the mirror, watching the rise and fall of Shawn's chest as he panted, the movement of his hand across Shawn's sexy stomach, and the soft slow pump of his other hand on Shawn's rock hard organ.

Shawn's breathing hitched, he moaned in the back of his throat, and all of a sudden, Carlton wanted nothing more than to hear more sounds like that. He pumped a bit faster, adding a little twist with his wrist on each upswing, before pumping back down again. Shawn had reached behind himself, grabbing hold of what he could of Carlton's hip and pulling the other man so his body was pressing harder into Shawn's back.

Carlton sped up yet again, his other hand now sitting stationary on Shawn's stomach, pressing the younger man into his front. His own hard cock was straining between their bodies, screaming to be touched, be he ignored it.

After a few minutes, Shawn's panting had reached a pitch, peppered with occasional moans, but now his voice screamed of warning. "I- I'm gunna-"

"Go ahead, Shawn. I want to watch you cum. You're so fucking beautiful like this. Just let go."

Shawn's orgasm began even before the other man had finished speaking. He whispered a quick "Lassie" and then he was gone.

He heard a guttural growl and suddenly was not touching the floor any more. The next thing he knew he was laying on the bed, the detective on top of him, kissing his neck again. He was still breathing hard, body recovering from an intense orgasm as the detective slowly made his way with his mouth back to Shawn's lips. The kiss was hot and passionate, the detective grinding down on him, and Shawn was still fully hard. That had never happened to him before.

The detective's searing kiss was doing absolutely nothing to calm Shawn down, and as he began moving more, shifting his hips and letting his hands explore the other man again, Carlton soon figured this out.

He leaned back, letting some air between their bodies as he moved to lie on his side next to Shawn, looking the psychic up and down. "Wow!" was all he could say.

"I can't help but notice YOU are still fully dressed." Shawn punctuated the sentence by poking Carlton in the stomach. A slow smile grew on Carlton's face, starting at his eyes, before spreading to his mouth. Then, he started laughing. It was the most unexpected, perfect moment in Shawn's life.

Shawn decided to take the lead now that he was pretty sure Carlton wasn't about to run away. He leaned over the other man, shifting their positions so that he was on top, before sitting up and straddling the detective's hips.

He reached for the strap on the detective's holster.

"I can't believe you kept your gun on through that whole thing."

"I'm sorry." He made to sit up to take it off, but Shawn pushed him back down.

"Don't be, it's really hot."

He started slowly unbuckling the leather holster, keeping eye contact with the now enthralled detective as he did so. His slow movements combined with his intense, hungry eye contact made the whole act extremely hot, and Carlton didn't think he'd ever be able to take his holster off again without becoming painfully hard. Once the psychic had the leather unstrapped, the detective sat up only enough for Shawn to pull the holster out from beneath him. He did, and dropped it off the side of the bed, before moving to the buttons on Carlton's shirt. He continued slowly undressing the man, briefly looking down at the newly uncovered parts of his body, before gazing back into the deep blue eyes he was certain he could get lost in if he let himself. Soon, the detective was fully nude, lying hard as a rock below him. He finally leaned down and kissed the man, it was a soft, slow kiss, and it lasted a long time. Their hands roamed unhurriedly over each other's bodies, the occasional grind pressing their hard cocks together, sliding across each other in an almost painfully intense, hot pleasure.

Shawn pulled back, breathless. "What are you up for tonight?"

"Whatever you want," the detective said. And he meant it.

"What if I want to feel you inside me?"

Before the detective had even nodded, Shawn could tell he wanted it just as much. He rolled over again, pulling the detective back on top of him. "There's lube in the drawer." He pointed to the bedside table.

Talking the detective through the process of stretching and preparing him, he guided the man's long-fingered hands to where they needed to be. They took their time, ensuring that the job was done right. Finally, they were ready and the detective was perched at his entrance.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

They kissed again, and Shawn angled his lower body toward the detective.

The detective slowly pushed, easing himself gently against the tight barrier. I litany of needy sounds spilled out of the detective's mouth, halted words and phrases that excited Shawn down to his core, especially when he heard his own name. The psychic pushed out, easing the pressure as he pushed his hips up to meet the detective. Suddenly, Carlton was fully sheathed inside him.

They leaned back to look at each other, the intensity of their gaze reflecting what they felt inside at being connected in such an intimate way. Slowly, they began moving together, building up a gentle rhythm, filling more than just a physical need as they moved as one, locked in each other's gaze.

Carlton shifted his body so he could lean down and kiss Shawn, and Shawn felt a small explosion inside himself at the change of angle. His hands flew up, gripping Carlton's biceps. The man leaned back again, looking concerned, but Shawn alleviated any doubt by pulling him back down, kissing him deeply as the detective hit that bundle of nerves within him again and again.

They moved together, building tension until they both felt like they would boil over. Suddenly Carlton reached a hand up, sliding it across Shawn's cheek and looking deep into his eyes. "Spencer, I- Shawn." He wouldn't last much longer.

At the sound of Carlton's voice raw with so much emotion, Shawn exploded, every muscle contracting almost as if synchronized with his heartbeat. Moments later Carlton joined him, whispering Shawn's name again as his fingers clenched in the younger man's hair. His arms gave out and he fell fully on top of the other man, one hand still in his hair, while the other grabbed on to his upper arm. He didn't think he could let go, even if he wanted to.

"Oh," he panted in a breathless whisper as he recovered, "Shawn."

The whisper was quiet, but spoken as it was, directly in Shawn's ear, it sent a pleasurable swirl of heat through his body, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

Both men nuzzled in closer, dozing in the warmth of the afterglow and the heat of their entwined bodies.


	11. Chapter 10

The next morning Carlton was the first to awake, bodies next to each other but lower limbs still entangled. He leaned back to watch the psychic sleep, surprised at what he was feeling. If he had known a week ago that he would end up like this, naked in bed with Shawn after a night of the hottest sex he had ever experienced, he would have assumed that he would feel regret, or at least panic over what this would mean for him.

Oddly enough, he only felt relief. He had been with a man, and it had felt right; nothing like his experiences with women. The suspicions he had begun having in college were finally confirmed. He was gay. But more than that, he had been with Shawn, which felt even more right. Sure, he had truly loved his wife, and he had thought he loved his ex partner, but what he felt with Shawn was a more whole, all-encompassing love. It wasn't the kind of love you felt for a family member or a friend, it was the kind of love they made movies about. He finally knew what everyone meant when they said "in love."

He reached out a hand, running his thumb over the rough five o'clock shadow on Shawn's face (a texture that Carlton though might just be the most erotic thing he would ever feel in his life), before dragging it gently across the other man's lower lip.

Shawn stirred, looking around and stretching before his eyes landed on the detective. "Mornin' Lassie."

In response the detective leaned in, kissing Shawn on the lips in attempts to convey everything he was feeling, running his hand across Shawn's rough cheek as he did so. He ignored Shawn's slight morning breath. That meant he was real, and he was here with the detective.

"Oh, wow. You're in a good mood this morning."

"Of course I am," the detective replied, shifting his body on top of the other man. He kissed him again, relishing the feel of Shawn's hands on his skin as he slipped them under the sheet, slowly pushing them down the detective's back until they reached his butt, where he grabbed on, pulling the other man's body down more into his.

They began rocking slowly together, cocks starting to harden from the kiss, and the friction between their nude bodies.

Suddenly the phone rang. Carlton began to pull away so Shawn could answer it, but the younger man wrapped his legs and arms around the detective, pulling him back down.

"The machine can get it," he whispered, before kissing the man again.

They continued kissing over the sound of the rings. Shawn's outgoing message began, followed by a short beep.

*Hey, Shawn. It's Mia.*

At the sound of the woman's voice, Shawn pulled away from the kiss to give more of his attention to the machine.

*I have to cancel for Friday.*

Shawn's bottom lip swelled out in a playful pout, but his eyes remained focused on Lassiter while his hands clamped down even harder on the other man's backside.

*I have to go out of town for a few days. Don't let it get too stiff, now. I'm going to work you hard next time to make up for it.*

Carlton felt Shawn's body shake in a chuckle beneath him.

*You had better be stretching; I'm going to get you into positions you didn't think were possible. Ciao.*

"Aye, aye, Cap'n!" Shawn said playfully, pulling Carlton down to resume their kiss.

Carlton resisted though, pulling away as a flood of confusing emotions washed over him. Shawn merely smiled up at him, lying unashamedly naked; his tan muscular body nestled in a mess of soft clean white sheets.

When had Carlton gotten out of bed? A surge of jealousy bubbled up in his gut, followed by a wave of self disgust. He had no business being jealous. He was just some guy Shawn had fucked. They were-They weren't anything. Shawn certainly didn't have feelings for the detective, why would he? Carlton felt sick to his stomach.

"Where are you going?"

The detective didn't even realise he was circling around the room collecting his clothes until Shawn spoke. He looked back at the man, who had sat up in the bed now. 'Gay my ass!' he wanted to say, but it came out as, "I have to go to work."

Shawn smiled his damn obstinate smile. "The Chief doesn't want you anywhere near the station today."

The detective had his shoes, socks, and pants on, and was attempting to thread his belt through the loops. "I—I just have to go."

Shawn's smile disappeared. He began to get out of bed, and Carlton couldn't stand to see him like that. He threw his shirt and holster on, grabbing his tie and making his way quickly to Shawn's front door and out into the hall. He pressed the button for the elevator, giving thanks when the doors opened almost immediately, revealing a single woman holding a bag of groceries. She looked him up and down, taking in the badge on his belt, and the gun in a shoulder holster over an open shirt, not even bothering to hide the shock on her face. "Going up?" she asked uncertainly just as he finished fastening his belt.

"Lassy!" he heard behind him.

He just wanted to get away from Shaw-Spencer as soon as possible, so he got in to the elevator. The button for the fifteenth floor was lit; he would be riding up with this woman for a long time, but if that meant getting away from the psychic, he could live with it. He pressed the lobby button and went to the back corner of the elevator, putting his tie through his collar and starting to tie it, forgetting that he hadn't even buttoned his shirt yet. The elevator doors had almost closed when a hand shot through the crack, forcing them to open again. He looked up to find the younger man standing in the hallway, wearing nothing but a white sheet wrapped around his body. The woman's face went from surprise to amusement, taking in the situation before her.

"Lassy, what's wrong?"

"I have to go. I'm sure you have plans; you won't miss me."

"You are my plans!" the man said, pushing back on the door as it tried to close on him again. As it slid back open, the alarm started going off. The woman with the groceries smiled, eyes darting between the two men as if watching a tennis match, wondering what would happen next and thinking that this was better than any Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks movie.

"This will give you a chance to hook up with Mia before her trip, Spencer. Now, let us go."

"Hook up with...? Carlton, what are you talking about?"

The detective was fumbling with his tie, his shaking hands having trouble with the knot. "This woman has milk, Spencer. She probably wants to get it put away."

"Actually, it's soy milk. It doesn't need to be refrigerated until it's open," she cheerfully offered.

He locked his blue eyes on her, clearly annoyed. "You're not helping, Lady."

Shawn moved forward, reaching up with one hand to help the detective with his tie, holding the sheet up with the other hand. The elevator doors closed behind him, and they started going up.

The detective slapped his hand away. "So how many other people are you sleeping with?"

Shawn looked more confused. "The only person I've wanted for a VERY long time was you."

The woman with the soy milk sighed.

"Then who is Mia?"

Shawn looked around the elevator, confused, as if he could find the answer written on one of the walls. Finally, he realised what the detective was talking about and started laughing, which only made the detective scowl.

When he was able to speak, he explained, "That message was from my physical therapist Dr. Mia Caroselli. I started seeing her after my last motorcycle accident when I reinjured my knee. What I said last night was true. I'm gay."

"Spencer, I've seen you date women before."

The elevator made a dinging sound and the doors opened. In from the eleventh floor walked another woman wearing exercise clothes and carrying a yoga mat. Her eyes went from Shawn's sheet covered back, to Carlton's still-bare chest, then to the control panel, where both the lobby and the fifteenth floor buttons were lit. Finally she looked the soy milk woman in the eyes and asked uncertainly, "Going down?"

"I'm going up; I don't know where these two are going."

"What's going on?" the woman with the yoga mat whispered to the woman with the soy milk as the doors closed and the elevator again started making its way skyward.

"Well, the tall one with the gorgeous blue eyes, gun, and badge thought the shorter one in the sheet was cheating on him, but it was a false alarm. But now he doubts he is even gay."

"Wait, the one in the sheet doubts the cop is gay?"

"No, the other way around. The sheet guy used to date women."

"Okay, wait, a minute. Hi, my name is Shawn, and I AM gay." He turned away from the ladies and back toward the detective. "I don't know how closely you've been paying attention, but I haven't dated anyone in a few years. I wasn't sure what I wanted back then, but now I know I want you!"

The elevator dinged again. They were on the fifteenth floor. As the doors closed and the elevator started going down, Carlton spoke. "Wasn't that your stop?"

"Uhhh," the woman with soy milk hesitated, "I forgot something down in my car."

"You were married once, Carlton. You know that what you did in the past has nothing to do with what you want now, or in the future. I want you, Carlton." Shawn took a step forward and put his hand on Carlton's bare chest. "And I know that you want me too, I could tell in the way you touched me last night, in the way you said my name when you...," he bit his lip, "in the way you kissed me this morning."

He reached up his other hand and grabbed the detective's crookedly knotted tie, pulling on it until the detective's lips were within range of his own. He kept one hand where it lay on Carlton's chest, just above his heart, and thread the other arm around Carlton's neck, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. The taller man put up no resistance, instead wrapping his arms around the shorter man's body. He pulled away from the kiss, only long enough to say, "Can someone press the button for the third floor?" His eyes locked on Shawn the whole time.

Someone must have obeyed, because the next time they heard the ding, they were on Shawn's floor, where Carlton pushed the naked man backwards out of the elevator until his back hit the opposite wall. It took them a while to make it to Shawn's door, immersed as they were in their kiss. Finally, as they reached their destination, Shawn turned toward the door, the detective quickly pressing himself against the psychic's back, kissing his neck, and reaching a hand around to massage his hardening member through the sheet.

The shorter man gasped, letting his head fall back against the detective's shoulder again and kissing him while reaching behind himself to cup the detective's own growing bulge through his pants. The detective let out his own low moan, reaching out in front of him to open the door.

"Uh, Shawn?"

"Yes, Lassy?"

The detective groaned as the other man's hand squeezed him through his pants again. "Do you have the key?"

"It's on the kitchen counter, next to our phones."

"Uhh, the door is locked.

"What?" Shawn lifted his head again and tried the knob himself. It rattled uselessly in his hand, but would not turn. "Oh, no."

"Stand aside, I'm going to kick it down." The detective started pushing up his sleeves, a move that is slightly less effective when your shirt isn't even buttoned.

Again, Shawn put his hand on Carlton's chest, pushing him away from the door. "Don't you dare, Lassy. I don't want to pay for a new door. We'll go downstairs and get the Super."

"I could just shoot out the lock..." the detective offered, reaching for his gun.

"No, come on. His office is just down on the first floor."

He pulled the taller man back toward the elevator by the tie. When the doors opened, soy milk woman, who was still standing inside, greeted them with a huge smile. Both men's lips had the telltale just-kissed look, and the detective now sported an obvious erection which was clearly visible through his pants.

"Going back up?" the woman asked.

The detective made his way back to the corner of the elevator, not even bothering to answer. When Shawn followed him in, the detective positioned the shorter man in front of himself to hide the predicament in his pants.

"No, I locked us out of the apartment," Shawn explained with a smile.

"Ah," she smiled back at him, smirking over his shoulder at the detective, "Why don't you guys come up to my apartment to call the Super. You can wait there for him to unlock your place, instead of waiting out in the hall. Sometimes he can take a while. When I locked myself out, it took him 45 minutes to get back to me. I'm sure you don't want to wait out in the hall that long in a sheet."

"Ah, thank you! I'm Shawn Spencer, by the way," he offered her his hand, making sure to keep the sheet up with his other, "this is head detective Carlton Lassiter of the SBPD." She dropped Shawn's hand and offered hers to the man behind him. When the taller man didn't move to greet the woman, the psychic reached back and squeezed him through his pants again.

"Gah!" He reached around the shorter man. "Ma'am."

She took a good look at them then. "Shawn Spenc...Are you that psychic that works with the cops sometimes?"

A big smile lit up his face. "I am!"

"Ah, I thought you two looked familiar. There was a story about you in the paper about a month ago, when someone at the mayor's office disappeared. I knew something was up in that picture. Two men don't look at each other like that unless they're in love."

"Actually, we wer-" Shawn squeezed the man again, effectively shutting him up.

"That's probably true," Shawn offered.

The detective brought his hands up, grabbing Shawn's biceps from behind and trying to keep his breathing steady as the younger man rubbed him slowly. Maybe Shawn was right. Even back when the psychic used to annoy him constantly, he always enjoyed his job a little more when the younger man was around. He bent forward and pressed his face into the other man's hair, breathing in his scent.

"It was true," he whispered, half to himself and half to Shawn.

The End

A/N: Now that it's all done: Review? Let me know what you thought of it? Pwetty Pwease? Even if it's just a one word review, I'll appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you thought.


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